


Beautiful Dreamer

by Xaraphis



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-10-24
Updated: 2015-11-24
Packaged: 2018-02-22 11:45:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 23,335
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2506628
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Xaraphis/pseuds/Xaraphis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The events of the past year have taken their toll on Molly's relationship with Sherlock. Four months after the broadcast that kept him in England, life remains as it ever was. Except for one thing - the nightmares. As the terrors of her dreams begin to bleed into the waking world, Molly and Sherlock must work together to defeat the monsters in the dark. Post-HLV. Sherlolly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I own nothing.
> 
> This started off as a Halloween story, but then this whole plot thing happened. Huge thanks to my Sister/Beta Alethnya for badgering me to finally get back into writing. (If you haven't, you need to go check out her Khan/OFC fic Somewhere I Have Never Travelled. It is my life, my canon and Khan/Rebecca are my supreme OTP. I'm not even kidding.) Anyway, thank you for reading and I hope you enjoy!

_The gentle hum of a beloved tune snaked through the darkness. The sound filled the space around her with warmth as memories of love and home flitted through her mind. A faint glow rose up in the darkness, illuminating the area around her to reveal the corner of a room. As the humming of the tune grew stronger, so did the light, revealing more of the unknown space and a spark of recognition jolted through her._

_Her bedroom. Her childhood bedroom; a room she had not been in in so very long._

_Tears sprung to her eyes as her mind finally recognized the warm, melodic voice—her father’s voice. Beautiful Dreamer—his favorite song—given life by his warm, comforting tenor was the source of so many good memories. Nightmares, heartaches and hurts; everything was made better in her world by the gentle sound of that cherished melody._

_“Beautiful dreamer, wake unto me”_

_She spun around to face the one dark corner remaining in the room. The memory of gentle arms holding her in a strong embrace, rocking her in the soft light of her bedroom made her smile longingly at the dark, eagerly awaiting the light to fill that final corner._

_“Starlight and dewdrops are awaiting thee”_

_Her father’s lovely, soothing voice—chasing the darkness and her fears away just as it always had. That warmth filled her and she took a hopeful step toward that lingering darkness, eager to see her father for the first time in years._

_“Sounds of the rude world, heard in the day,”_

_Another step. His smile as he looked down on her had always been so soft and she had never felt as safe as she had with him._

_“Led by the moonlight, have all passed away,”_

_Something moved in the darkness and her steps faltered. The room around her grew cold and that cherished warmth melted, twisting into a tendril of fear as eyes—inhuman eyes—stared out from that darkness._

_“Beautiful dreamer—“_

_That tendril of fear exploded into full-blown panic as the room around her erupted with light, illuminating all that had been in darkness. A shadowed figure stood there, haloed by the sudden brightness; the more she tried to focus her eyes on it, the more its form blurred into not-quite human shapes. One thing remained constant though—the figure was wearing a hooded cloak, filled with shadows and its head was downcast. A feeling of pure, tainted **evil** bled through the air and surrounded her, nearly suffocating her in its intensity._

_Her breaths were shallow and ragged and she fought to control her breathing, fought to calm her nerves as that figure just stood there in the corner…waiting._

**_For what?_ **

_Slowly, the shadows crept out from the figure, throwing the corner into darkness yet again. She watched in horror as that darkness stretched, a shadowy tide that appeared to leach the light from the room, slowly creeping toward her._

_“No!”_

_She threw herself backward and relief washed through her as the darkness receded ever so slightly back toward that shadowed figure. She stood, staring at the border of light and dark, waiting for the shadows to fully retreat once more. The shadows blocked the door; as soon as they fully retreated, she could try to reach the door._

_As the silence stretched, the shadow crept out from the figure and toward her again. **“What do you want from me?”** She yelled as her back hit the wall behind her, frustration at being trapped lending a bite to her voice._

_The figure’s downcast head tilted to the side but still it stood on in silence, its features hidden by the bulk of the hood. It seemed as if it was studying her, learning her, calculating…though exactly what, she didn’t know. Whatever it was and whatever it was doing, it was most certainly a threat. That feeling of unrestrained evil swirled around her, taunting her and suddenly, it’s head snapped to tilt to the other side as the silence was chased away and that beloved melody filled the room again._

_But it was **wrong.** A different voice filled the room and this one did **not** fill her with warmth._

_“—Queen of my song,”_

**_This_ ** _voice made her blood run cold._

_“List’ while I woo thee with soft melody.”_

_The room fell into darkness so thick she couldn’t see her hands held out before her…but she could hear it…him… moving, could hear it breathing in the darkness._

_“Beautiful,” a small, twisted laugh, “… **creature** , for me you’ll scream”_

_A shuffle of sound fell just to her left, causing fear—sharp, painful **fear** —to spike through her blood and slither under her skin._

_“Thrilling to kill you inside of your dream”_

_His voice was so soft and sweet as he moved to her right, even closer, and a whisper of breath brushed across her cheek._

_“Beautiful creature, living in death”_

_She smacked her hands against the wall behind her in frustration; palms stinging though she couldn’t even feel it. She could hear it… **him** … breathing all around her._

_Then…everything stopped and fell silent. Not a sound. Not a breath could be heard._

_The voice now when it sang was a low, guttural growl of inhuman pitch._

_“Waiting and watching for that final breath.”_

_Suddenly, light flooded the room once more, revealing the figure standing right in front of her; it’s face still downcast and concealed by shades of grey and darkest black._

_Tears fell from her eyes as she stared at the lowered head not a foot away from her face. Fear like nothing she had ever felt before grabbed hold of her body, pulling taut as she prepared for the moment when she would finally see its face. A low growl arose from it again, reaching into her body and turning every nerve into ice. It rushed at her and she pushed herself back into the wall in a futile attempt to escape it. The growl turned into a perverse roar as fingertips dug into her skin, bruising her flesh as she screamed. She watched in frozen horror as the head slowly lifted…_

Molly’s eyes flew open and the darkness that filled her bedroom triggered a fresh wave of _real_ panic. Her hand flew out to her nightstand, fingers fumbling with the knob on her lamp before blissfully soft light filled the confines of her bedroom. Sucking in lung-full after lung-full of air, she fell back against her headboard and brought her shaking hands up to bury them in her hair.

 

A dream. Just a dream. Just an overwhelming…horrific… _nightmare_ of a dream.

A flash of lightning filled the room, followed unerringly by a sickening crack of thunder. She listened to the torrent of rain as it hit the roof over her head, focused on the sound as it sluiced down the windows in an attempt to calm her mind.

 

It really wasn’t working.

 

It had been years—decades—since storms had truly scared her. They were certainly not one of her favorite things, but she was rational enough to ignore the discomfort. She blew out a breath and dropped her hands to let them fall into her lap.

 

The memory of the fear must have been buried somewhere; every storm that had happened over the past weeks had triggered a myriad of nightmares. It would only make sense that _this_ would be the time that England decided to have an abnormal amount of thunderstorms. So, she had been having an increasingly abnormal amount of nightmares. Always with darkness…always faceless…always Jim’s voice.

 

Thunder sounded once more, this one a loud but steady rumble that caused the pictures on her walls to shake. The storm didn’t appear to be letting up any time soon and sleep was most definitely no longer a viable option. The panic might have settled and her breathing returned to normal, but her mind was a very long way away from being at ease.

 

With another sigh, she threw her legs out from under the covers and buried her feet in her soft, peach-hued slippers. Next came her fuzzy, white robe, the pocket embroidered with a grinning cat nuzzling the word “purrr-fect”. She pulled her hair out from the back of the robe, letting it fall over her shoulders as she made her way into the kitchen.

 

“Tea,” she said to Toby as he wove through her steps and she tried not to stumble in the semi-darkness. “Nothing like tea to calm the nerves.”

 

She filled the electric kettle up with water and flipped the switch to turn it on. The glowing blue light of the switch always filled her with a tiny wave of delight; tea made everything more pleasant.

 

Humming softly to herself, she grabbed a cup and a tea bag out of the cupboard. Her eyes widened when she realized what exactly she had been humming and she immediately went silent. Beautiful Dreamer…a song that had always filled her with such comfort; a song that had chased the demons away, now seemed to be summoning them. The memory of the fear she felt in her dream and that encroaching darkness dug into her mind, causing a flood of anxiety that threatened to wash over her. She blew out a breath and slapped her palms on the counter, causing Toby—who had leapt up onto the counter beside her—to jump back down onto the floor. She flashed him a small, apologetic grin, thankful for the momentary grounding, “Serves you right. You know you’re not s’posed to be up here.”

 

She stood there, looking at the cat, half-expecting him to reply. Bringing a hand up to her brow, she rubbed at it tiredly and let out a thin, self-deprecating laugh. “I’m waiting on an answer from a cat. I think I’ve been working too much.” She leaned down to scratch under Toby’s chin and her smile got a little bigger. “Too many post-mortems and not enough conversation.”

 

She opened the refrigerator and looked mournfully at the milk container as she set it on the counter. Toby began to rub against her leg beseechingly, but there wasn’t enough milk for the both of them. She looked from the milk to the sweet little face of her cat as he continued his persuasive attentions on her leg, all the while giving her the most annoyingly pleading look. A few more rounds of glances from the milk to the cat and she rolled her eyes, grabbed a saucer and poured the rest of the milk for the damn feline.

 

With a disheartened groan, she flipped off the kettle; there would be no tea without milk. Not in her world.

 

She thrummed her fingers on the countertop, looking around for _something_ to calm her nerves and take the edge off. Molly smiled slightly when her eyes settled on the bottle of gin that sat on her sideboard. Considerably less than half-full, it was saved for long days and special circumstances; this was undoubtedly both.

 

“That’ll do.” She said to the cat that, who was blissfully unaware of anything but the saucer full of milk before him.

 

Not even bothering with a glass, she opened the bottle and took a swig—oh, how her mother would have _hated_ that. The burn of the alcohol seared her throat as the lovely and soothing flavor of juniper and citrus danced on her tongue. A few more burning gulps and all that wretched chaos was beginning to be replaced by warmth and the barest touch of an alcohol-induced fog.

 

Suddenly, a particularly bright flash of lightning flooded through the windows of her living room, illuminating the shadow of a figure sitting on her sofa. Her eyes widened in panic as her grip tightened on the neck of the bottle of gin she was holding. The figure stood and moved forward, catching her arm as she swung the bottle over her head in an attempt to strike at it.

 

“Drinking alone, Molly?” Sherlock’s voice washed over her; a relief and a frustration all rolled into one. Alcohol spilled out of the bottle and down her arm as he had yet to release her. “If I didn’t know better, I’d believe that you actually _are_ a drunk.” He plucked the bottle from her hand and set it on the counter, flashing her a tight, fake smile. “Though perhaps that would explain the substantial increase in violent behavior you have displayed of late.”

 

Molly yanked her arm out of his grasp, stormed over to the light switch and flicked it on with so much force that it made her hand hurt—like hell she was going to let _that_ show. “Oh, that is _rich_ coming from you!” She whipped around to face him and glared up into his bored gaze. “What are you doing in my flat, Sherlock?”

 

His lips pursed and his eyes dragged from hers to start taking in the details of her flat. “I needed to think, something made increasingly difficult at Baker Street by Mrs. Hudson and her latest _dalliance_. My previous attempt to utilise John and Mary’s flat did not end on a pleasant note; John threatened bodily injury if I didn't vacate the premises immediately…something to do with pregnancy, I don’t know. I deleted it. So that leaves you.”

 

Fucking. _Brilliant_.

 

His habitual rapid-fire delivery did nothing for the state of her nerves— _or her mood_ —so she continued to glare at him. His eyes maintained their constant absorption of every detail of her flat, bouncing around her as if she weren’t even there. It took every _shred_ of self-control she possessed not to yell at him. “Do you have any idea what time it is?”

 

“No.” The distraction in his voice spoke volumes; not only had he no idea of the time, but he also did not care in the slightest.

 

 _Typical_.

 

His eyes narrowed as he focused his gaze toward her bedroom. “I hardly see how it matters. You awoke on your own, but not because of the storm...” Here he directed the full force of his piercing gaze on her face. His eyes narrowed, “Nightmares. Recurring nightmares.”

 

Her eyes widened and her jaw clenched—she reallydidn’t want to talk about this. She _really_ didn’t feel like listening to her latest psychological trauma being picked apart and paraded before her by _Sherlock-bloody-Holmes_. She just wanted the whole thing to just go away.

 

He observed every detail of her face with unnerving intensity. “You—“ his eyes settled on hers and whatever he saw in her gaze halted the likely torrent of words from his mouth.

 

Maybe there really was a God.

 

Dropping her gaze from his, she moved to the kitchen and yanked a towel off of the counter. Still without looking at him, she knelt down and attempted to clean up as much of the alcohol that had spilled during their almost-row as possible.

 

As she pushed and pounded the towel into the carpet, he remained unmoving at the periphery of her vision. He stood in silence, which was often-times even _more_ terrifying than when words would spill out of his mouth in an effort to keep pace with his lightning quick brain…

 

That glorious, brilliant brain belonging to this glorious, beautiful, _brilliant_ man…

 

Molly pressed her lips together as her brow knit in frustration. Thoughts like that were the bane of her existence and she pounded the towel into the carpet a little harder than necessary.

 

_That glorious, beautiful, brilliant man that **lied** to you repeatedly while he did heroin, got into a fake relationship—a one-sidedly fake relationship complete with a fake marriage proposal—before he murdered a man. _

 

Sighing, she tossed a glance at his feet—his bare feet—and tilted her head up to look at him. Now that her mind was clearing from the nightmare and the unexpected appearance of _him_ , she was able to fully take in his appearance. “Do you generally travel about town in your dressing gown and pajamas?”

 

Those incandescent eyes flicked from where she was cleaning up the floor to hers. “I told you, I needed to think. Changing clothes was a waste of time.” The detachment he cloaked himself in permeated his voice, infuriating her all the more. “I thought of something. For a case.  Thought I might find the answer here.” The absent-minded air was back in his voice as his eyes settled on Toby and he muttered. “Cat-loving pathologist.”

 

_…O…K…_

 

Confused beyond belief, she stood up to get a better look at him. His expression was stoic in the extreme, but that was nothing new. What _was_ new were the shadows under his eyes and the slightest crinkle of worry-lines around his brow and mouth. Fighting the sudden urge to ask him what was wrong, Molly walked past him to more fully observe her flat. His Belstaff was hung on a coat hook by her door and the blanket that was usually folded up on a shelf was spread out on the sofa. The unmistakable indentation on one of the pillows made it obvious; he hadn’t come here to think, he had come to sleep.

 

“Sherlock…why were you sleeping on my sofa?”

 

He shifted uncomfortably behind her and his voice when he spoke was hesitant. “You said I was no longer welcome in either of your bedrooms.”

 

She squeezed her eyes closed, hoping somehow that she could find strength for this. Leave it to Sherlock Holmes to find his way around limiting circumstances due to a lack of specificity on her part. She would have to be much more precise in the future. “That doesn’t answer my question.”

 

A heavy sigh fell from his lips; she could practically see him drag his hands through his hair in her mind. A few moments passed in silence as if he was struggling to put voice to thoughts that he clearly had no wish to speak aloud. “I cannot protect you from Baker Street.”

 

Her eyes flew open at that gently whispered confession and she fought the frustratingly unexpected sting of tears. “From Jim?” She tried but failed miserably to hide the shiver of fear that shot through her.

 

“Yes.” His voice was stronger now but still hesitant.

 

“We aren’t even sure if he’s really back. There’s been nothing for four months.” _Did you miss me?_ That wretched hijacking of the airwaves had turned her world upside down. That day had already been difficult enough; she had been reeling from the news of Sherlock’s banishment, revealed to her by Greg that very morning. He hadn’t known that she hadn’t been told, and she had been forced to fake commiseration to hide just how much she wanted to cry. Not just for Sherlock, but for herself. Facing the reality of being slighted— _forgotten_ —by Sherlock was bad enough, but then _Jim_ appeared and everything got that much worse. Fortunately, it had been the very thing needed to keep Sherlock from leaving England; no one understood Jim Moriarty quite like he did. _Un_ fortunately, not too long after that had been when her nightmares began.

 

“If he truly has returned,” and here he sighed again, a tiny shake entering _his_ voice this time. “When he learns that you aided me in my plan to defeat him, he _will_ be coming after you. It's what…it's what _I_ would do…and he and I are one and the same. ”

 

That admission was a difficult thing to swallow and she had no idea where to even begin responding to it. Instead, she focused on the part that concerned her; the part that cried out over every other thought in her mind. He wasn’t here because he wanted to be; he was here because he felt _responsible_ for her potentially being in danger. Hadn’t she told him that she had wanted to help? She was a grown woman; she had known what she was getting involved with when she helped him. If she had it to do all over again, she wouldn’t change a single thing.

 

Well…maybe one _thing_ …lots and lots of times doing that _one thing_. Their relationship, their friendship, would never have come to this if they hadn’t done… _that_.

 

But they had, and then he went and disappeared for almost two years. He had kept in contact relatively infrequently during that time, so she had moved on, gotten engaged to Tom…and then everything went to complete shit once Sherlock came back. Every time she would convince herself that whatever she felt for Sherlock was over and done with, he would do or say something that would just turn her world on its head. However, it was never long before she remembered why there had been distance in the first place—Sherlock ignoring her and treating her like a task to be crossed off on his bi-weekly checklist was an all too familiar occurrence.

 

 _That_ thought agitated her; pulling at scabbed over wounds that she worked so hard to ignore.

 

“I’m not one of your obligations, Sherlock.”

 

She turned around to face him; the words she had been about to say vanishing before they could be given voice by the raw emotion in his eyes. Holding her gaze, he took a tentative step forward. Her irritation and resolve began to wither as the distance between them continued to shrink. When he stopped _right in front of her_ , her heart started pounding in her chest as she tilted her face up to look at him.

 

“No,” He raised his hand to tentatively cup her face and her eyes fluttered shut of their own volition. She couldn’t stand this close to him and look into his eyes—she just couldn’t. His fingertips began to move against her skin in small, gentle circles that reawakened a _yearning_ in her that was so strong it was practically an agony. “You're not.” His gentle words, spoken barely above a whisper, tore at her and so many different things—old feelings and memories— coursed through her. She instinctively lifted her face more fully up to his, her breath shaking as every bit of her burned with the feel of his fingers stirring whisper-soft against the skin of her neck. Eyes still firmly closed, she gasped when his fingertips dug into the back of her neck. He held her in place as his breath slid down her face in a slow, hot caress before settling on her parted lips.

 

“ _Molly_.”

 

The rumble of his voice across her mouth— _so very close_ —jolted her back. Confused and frustrated, Molly grabbed his hand and pulled it away as she dropped her face from his. “Sherlock,” She squeezed her eyes shut, taking a few breaths in an attempt to stay the longing she had no intention of seeing through, “Why are you doing this? Why do you _always_ do this? You push me away and then you go and do things _like this_. I can’t keep putting myself through that.”

 

Sherlock pulled his hand from hers and took a step back in retreat. He shifted his eyes away from hers and pressed his lips together. “Molly…it wouldn't be as before.”

 

Her anger spiked again and she couldn’t help the humorless laugh that erupted out of her throat. “ _Before_ …you mean before when you vaguely informed me that you were going to be _out of contact_ while you tackled the _case of a lifetime_? When you said it was to protect me, to keep me safe from the _questionable activities_ that you were going to have to do to solve it? When you were shooting up and getting addicted to heroin _again,_ putting your life in danger _again_ after _years_ of being clean?” His gaze had snapped back to hers and his expression sobered, slipping back into the aloof arrogance that he wore like armor into battle. “Or maybe you’re talking about when you had a relationship with another woman? When you then _used_ that woman and proposed to her _for a case_. A case that you couldn’t win, so you murdered the man instead?”

 

“To protect—“

 

“John, Mary and their unborn baby. Yes. _I know_.” Her anger cracked for a moment allowing some of the sadness to break through—what she was about to say was probably the most painful part of it all. It took her a moment to center herself, to regain enough composure to speak without letting her tears fall. “Or maybe you meant before…when you didn’t even say good-bye to me when you thought you were being sent away to die? After everything we had been through…after how we had been… _together_ …how could you do that?”

 

His eyes had dropped from hers and he stood silently before her. He held onto that wretched blank look on his face, though she could see the sadness, the _fear_ that he was trying so hard to conceal. “It was for a case.”

 

That same justification said in an uncharacteristically pleading tone was like a scalpel slicing at her insides. Like always, he had ignored the important things—the emotional things—and chose indifference over substance. 

 

He didn’t understand; she was starting to think that he never would, that he didn’t even want to.

 

They stood staring at one another, the silence filled with so many things left unsaid. When it became clear that he had no intention of saying anything more, she dropped her head and systematically ignored the tear that slipped from the corner of her eye.

 

If he was going to disregard everything that mattered, then she would too.

 

“You did all of that for a case, Sherlock. You say it wouldn’t be like before. For now, it might not be, but what about when the next _case of a lifetime_ pops up?” She sighed, bone-deep and weary and shook her head. “You should go. I’ll see you at Bart’s. Please don’t break into my flat again. Your concern isn’t wanted or needed. Good ni—uh—morning. _Good Morning_.”

 

Her eyes studied the carpet, keeping her head down as Sherlock continued to stand in silence. She couldn’t let herself look at him; she would lose every bit of the dispassionate façade she was trying so hard to maintain if she did. Her determination began to slip and just as she was about to give into the urge, she heard him move toward the door and gather his coat and scarf.

 

“Molly,” He waited after he spoke her name, probably expecting her to look at him. He must have realized that it wasn’t going to happen because he sighed, resigned. The sounds of him donning his coat, scarf and shoes were the only things to be heard in the flat. Finally, he slipped the locks on her door, his other hand falling on the knob. She listened intently for the sound of the door creaking open, but was instead met by the refined lilt of his voice—subdued, but no less breathtaking for it. “You've never been, nor will you ever be merely an obligation to me.”

 

The unguarded and sincere feeling he put into those words stunned her, causing her to finally lift her gaze to seek out his eyes. Instead, they fell on the wood of her brightly painted door as it shut gently behind him.

 

Just as well.

 

His concern was wanted; it was treasured and _so_ needed…but she couldn’t let herself give in. She still loved that man with everything she had, but he was never going to stop hurting her. Every time she gave him a chance—every time she stood up for him and defended his actions at her expense—little pieces of her felt as if they shriveled up and died.

 

She glanced at the clock on her mantle. It was still too early, far too early to start getting ready for yet another long shift at the hospital. Responsibility reared its ugly head as her eyes feel on the stacks of books and notes haphazardly scattered on her dining table. She should, she knew, sit down and bang out a little bit more of her current research paper. Another crack of thunder sounded, causing her to jump—she wasn’t nearly in the right mindset to even attempt work and going back to sleep was definitely out. Showing up to work pissed was generally frowned upon, so the small amount of gin remaining in the bottle was out, too.

 

Instead, Molly Hooper sunk into the over-plush cushions of her sofa and did the only thing she could bring herself to do at that moment—she cried.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: Not a single thing here belongs to me.
> 
> A/N: I meant to say this on the first chapter…I hail from the land of Mickey Mouse and cheeseburgers, so I apologize for any unrealized Colonialisms. Thank you everyone for the reviews, follows, favs! It has been so encouraging on the first bit of creative writing that I’ve attempted for almost a decade! And huge thanks to my big sis and beta—I shall forever be in awe of your mad writing and editing skills. (She wrote an awesome Sherlolly Halloween-inspired fic that I’m in love with. Ghost of a Girl by Alethnya, so give it a read if you want to read something awesome.)

The somber tones of violin song floated through the air. Bright sunlight streamed in through the windows, flowing efficiently over the faded pages that stood before him—currently Bach’s Chaconne from Partita No. 2 for Violin in D minor. Not that Sherlock needed the music; this particular piece had been part of his musical repertoire for well over two decades. 

The sheet music had been bestowed upon him by his first violin teacher; a woman who had praised and doted on his dreadfully sentimental and youthful person. A woman who had then gone and let herself die the week before his twelfth birthday.

Though others—John—might have claimed differently, it was not sentiment that had prompted him to fetch the music for this particular piece. It was the comfort of the familiar that he craved; the calming effect of the wholly known. It was a scientific fact that repetitive actions were beneficial to the efficiency of reasoning, something he very much needed at present. He needed to think. He needed to…

The unmistakable sound of Mrs. Hudson and her latest frivolity enjoying themselves from the flat below caused his bow to slip and scratch an atrociously dissonant chord from the strings of his violin.

“Oh, for God’s sake,” He muttered, squeezing his eyes shut as his anger began to simmer.

The moaning grew louder as he continued to play, pressing the bow into the strings as forcefully as he could manage in an attempt to drown out the sounds from below. The forced fortissimo, completely at odds with the piece, did little to stifle the audible evidence of their amorous activities. Giving it up for a lost cause and giving in to his irritation, he furiously dragged the bow across the strings. Discordant notes screeched through the air, joining the moans and tipping his frustration over the breaking point. 

He ripped the violin from beneath his chin before storming to the door of his flat. Yanking it open, he hastened to the stair and thundered down several steps before leaning into the empty space below.

“SHUT UP!”

The sound of muffled laughter—female and male—floated up from the ground floor, followed by the equally as muffled voice of Mrs. Hudson. “Sorry, love!” 

He rolled his eyes at their infuriating and continued mirth before stomping back up the stairs. Slamming the door of his flat with brutal force, he began pacing up and down the length of the sitting room. The fingers of one hand clutched the neck of his violin while the other clutched the bow, scratching at the back of his neck with agitated energy.

The third time Sherlock passed his chair, they appeared to have finished—finally—for 221 Baker Street was quiet once more. Letting out a deep sigh, he dropped his chin to his chest. His mind was a vicious, whirling mass of thought, theories, and concepts—containing anything and everything that could potentially aide him in a case, accessible within a moment’s notice. But that was just the thing; he needed an outlet, he needed a case.

As it were, everything was putting him on edge, but nothing offered the much needed release. Any raucous activity of his own making—whatever that might be—would be tolerable, of course. The tedious undertakings of ordinary people in their equally as ordinary lives were a different matter entirely. All Mrs. Hudson’s amorous activities did was rub salt into a wound, one that he would be more than happy if it would just heal up already. 

If it was not that it was the mere impudence of every idiot he came in contact with. Simple-minded people and their dull wit were irritating and kept him from being able to focus on that which truly mattered.

Or the people…the person that truly mattered…

When it appeared as if Moriarty had somehow survived the rooftop, fear had begun to twist its way up his spine from the moment he stepped off of that plane to the concerned faces of John and Mary…and Mycroft. Following his return, when he had divulged the events of his presumed death, it had swiftly become common knowledge that Molly Hooper had helped him in his plight. He had been confident that he had dismantled the whole of Moriarty’s network. Never would he have thought that Moriarty himself had emerged from the ordeal potentially as alive as ever. 

What he had told Molly had been the truth; he and Moriarty were far too alike. He knew how the other man thought, so he had known since that first day of that inexplicable broadcast that Molly would potentially be in danger. Moriarty would be after the woman that even Sherlock himself claimed had made it all possible. Moriarty would not take well to the discovery that he had overlooked the pathologist’s significance in Sherlock’s life.

Not that he hadn’t done very much the same thing. Molly, with her cheerful disposition and her quiet fortitude had taken up a permanent residence in his Mind Palace. Even now she stood before him. Her gentle brown eyes shone up into his and her soft, sweet voice washed over him. “Sherlock.” His name was a delicate sigh as it left her lips and a stab of remembrance shot through him, making the memories flow…the way her long hair had slipped through his fingers like silk. The way her mouth had moved over his skin…her small body had moved beneath and over his. The way that small mouth had parted as moans of pleasure left her lips, setting fire to his blood…

The way that same mouth had banished him from her flat—twice. The pain that had permeated her words that very morning had nearly gutted him in their intensity. 

‘I’m not one of your obligations.’ Oh, but that had cut as efficiently as any knife.

The dark memories chased through his mind and still she stood smiling gently before him. How he wanted…how he longed…for her to look at him like this again, to hear her speak his name with admiration instead of indignation. 

He had no one to blame but himself…

No. That way lay sentiment and at this moment he could not afford sentiment. He shook himself from his thoughts and whipped his bow down in an arc toward the ground.

His senses needed to be sharp and on high alert for what was to come.

If it was Moriarty, the spider had rebuilt his web and was patiently waiting for the perfect moment to strike. The possibilities seemed rather nebulous as to what Moriarty intended to do. One thing was certain; Sherlock had not hesitated before deciding to keep an even closer eye on Molly. 

It was the logical thing to do…it certainly wasn’t borne out of maudlin desires. Certainly not.

Molly hadn’t suspected how often he had been sleeping in her flat, and if it had not been for this morning, he could have continued his relatively frequent ritual. But now…she had made her position on his presence in her flat abundantly clear. 

He moved to the cabinet by the window, pulling open a drawer. Observing first the cameraphone belonging to The Woman, but that was not what his eyes settled on. Nestled next to the phone, lay the present Molly had given him all those years ago. A cross-section of a heart, preserved on a slide. He had considered taking it to his room and keeping it by his bedside. However, he could not think of a single reason for doing so that was not grounded in sentiment. That alone closed the topic in his mind and he now refused to keep it anywhere else. Because he wasn’t sentimental…not really…he was merely confused by the distraction she created. That had to be it. He couldn’t really feel…

“Molly.” He whispered her name as he ran his finger along the hard edges of the glass.

“You still sleeping on her sofa?” Mary Watson’s voice pulled him to the present. 

“How do you know…” He turned around and shot her a narrow-eyed look, a silent question that she dismissed with a wave of her hand.

He rolled his eyes and huffed in response to his own inquiry. The Watsons told each other everything. Something that was allegedly necessary for the success of their life bond. Something that was also excessively irritating. Of course when he told John Watson something in confidence, his tongue immediately went wagging to his wife. “John.”

“Yes, of course, John,” She said, her voice adopting the same intonation when she spoke her husband’s name. “Are you still planning on not talking to her about all this?” Mary Watson’s calculating gaze locked onto his. 

“I can see that marriage has not put a damper on John’s ability to gossip.”

“Sherlock.”

The warning tone of her voice pulled at him, but he ignored it. “Where IS your husband anyway? I do believe I texted him and not you. Don’t you have a baby to take care of?” He stalked toward the fireplace, throwing himself down in his chair. Mary did not move toward him, just continued to stand still as his eyes bored into John’s empty chair before him. 

The silence stretched on. “So, I’m guessing you haven’t told her.”

A bored sigh. “I’ve already told her that Moriarty will likely target her.”

The silence stretched on before she sighed softly. “That’s not what I’m talking about, Sherlock, and you know it.”

As astute as ever, Mary saw right through him. He really needed to work on that. Still he refused to look at her. “I’ve no idea.”

“Yeah, all right.” She said, an edge to her voice as she moved across the floor toward him. “As to ‘where is John’, I just got my 6 week clearance from my Obstetrician.” She settled into the chair and rubbed her hands on her knees. “So we’re taking turns babysitting.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “How utterly tedious. Don’t people normally pay someone to do that? You both would be far more useful to me that way.”

After a long moment of silence, Sherlock flicked his eyes up to see Mary’s eyes hard upon his, her mouth slightly agape and tense. “It looks as if a criminal mastermind that has targeted children in the past might be back. Whether it’s him or a copycat, considering just how many stories in that book,” she jabbed a finger at yellow spine of Grimm’s Fairytale’s on the shelf, “involve babies, you really think we’d let our daughter out of our sight?”

He knew that, of course he knew that. John and he had spoken at length on this very topic the day before…or was it last week? He opened his mouth to give her an apology—of all things, “Mary, I—”

“And I was talking about babysitting you.” Her expression softened slightly. “John works all day, so he’s not always keen to give up his nights with Evey. Since I am with her all day long, it’s nice to get out.” 

He listened as she spoke, but his eyes were on his thumb where it rubbed small circles into the leather of his chair. “If that’s okay with you?” Hesitant, her voice pulled him slightly out of his reflections.

“Hm?” Eyes meeting hers briefly, he answered with a slight shake of his head. “Oh, yes, of course it is.” Fingers steepled and rubbing slowly across his mouth, it was difficult not to dwell on every possibility…every fear that those endless possibilities stirred up. The potential-Moriarty had been silent for four months. The anticipation and dead-ends were starting to eat at him like a canker. He couldn’t keep anyone safe if he was this unfocused. 

“Are you okay?”

Her voice brought him out of his reverie. A lie was just on the tip of his tongue, but Mary Watson could always tell when he was lying. And she was nothing if not persistent. Reigning in the emotion that was threatening to loose its way into his voice, Sherlock adopted the advantageous calm that always proved to be his greatest ally. “She threw me out; told me not to break into her flat anymore.” 

“Oh, imagine that.” 

The events from that morning flickered through his mind; her anger at him, her fear when he mentioned her nightmare, pain when she spoke of their past, that wretched moment of weakness where he had almost kissed her. He usually fought those impulses. A loss of control was generally not something that he was willing to partake in…unless the ultimate outcome was worth losing control over. Judging by past experience, it appeared as if Molly Hooper was just such an exception. The true difficulty lay in knowing full well that he could never be what she craved; knowing that he was particularly skilled at hurting her, especially when he had not the slightest idea of there being any offense to be doled out in the first place. 

He had never wanted Molly to be part of his danger. Even when he was being admittedly the most atrocious ass to everyone else—with Molly…he’d rather deprive himself of her presence than see that look of pain and disappointment on her face again. Of course, that very absence ended up hurting her more than he had ever dreamed. The upset in her voice that morning had been a near impossible thing to bear. And he had caused every bit of it.

Distance from him had always been the safest thing for her, but he had given in. He had gone to her in times past because she was Molly, because there was no one he trusted as explicitly as her. Now she very well could find herself in trouble in the coming months. Because of him.

Mary stood up, clapped her hands together and moved toward him.

“What are you doing?” He asked suspiciously.

She grabbed his arm and began pulling him out of his chair. “If you’re gonna get all emotional on me, I’m gonna need a coffee. I’ve had a total of five hours of sleep over the past two days.”

“I was not getting emotional. I was merely—“

“Coffee. Walk and talk.”

He couldn’t help but roll his eyes. “I have coffee here.”

Mary had already started down the stairs, but she looked back up to shoot him a pointed look. “Yes, you do, but I don’t fancy body parts in the fridge by the milk or accidentally drugging myself with something that is marked ‘sugar’. So it’ll be coffee from the shop.”

“That only happened once.”

“It was enough!” she called back to him.

They hailed a cab and Mary gave the address for a coffee shop not far from Bart’s. “Your text said you needed to see Molly?”

“No. It said that I needed to go to Bart’s.”

“Well, that’s pretty much the same thing, yeah? Unless you’ve started going somewhere other than Molly’s lab and her Morgue.”

“It’s hardly hers. Stamford’s there, too.”

“And Wilson and Jeffries.” She stopped and shot him a side-eyed look. “So, which one of them are we seeing then? Or did you manage to get a case in the past half hour?”

He thrummed his fingers on the door of the cab as he peered out the window. “All right, fine. We’re picking up something from Molly.” 

He could hear the thoughts forming in her head. “I’m waiting on the story, Sherlock.”

He sighed heavily as he continued to stare out the window. “Molly was not pleased when she found me sitting on her sofa at 4 this morning.” He turned his head back to Mary. “She tried to bash me over the head with a bottle of gin.”

Her eyebrows did indeed rise in surprise, drawing attention to the faint amusement apparent in her gaze as she muttered, “my kinda woman.”

He rolled his eyes and ignored her. “She had a nightmare.”

“Loads of people have nightmares, Sherlock.” 

“Yes, yes I know. Believe me, I am intimately aware of that. I simply…don’t like that she is ill at ease. That she is…unhappy.” He spoke the words carefully, hesitantly.

“Wow, you’re really serious, aren’t you?” The legitimate shock in her voice was only slightly insulting; he prided himself on being relatively realistic, after all. Her next words, however, were not something he expected. “Poor Molly.”

His head turned sharply, shooting her a glare as she now took a turn glancing out the window. “What? Poor Molly? I nearly get bashed over the head and it’s ‘Poor Molly’?”

Mary let out an exasperated sigh. “Well, did you tell her you don’t like it when she’s unhappy?” He said nothing to that. “Yeah, okay, thought so. All right, then what did you talk about?”

He sighed and kept his eyes determinedly out the window. “Things.” That was as detailed as he would get in this particular explanation. “Personal things that ultimately led to her throwing me out of her flat.”

Their fare paid, they exited the cab and walked toward the coffee stand. “You do seem to have a knack for that.” Mary sighed. “Honestly, though…you need to ease up and relax. It’s not as if Molly hasn’t been scared since the moment she found out her psychopath of an ex-boyfriend might be back from the dead.”

He steepled his fingers and rubbed them against his chin. “A line of thought we share. Moriarty has countless reasons to target her and this silence has been beyond frustrating. I wish I knew what the game will be.”

“I thought you’d be all…I don’t know…thrilled that ‘the game is on’ sorta thing.” She walked up to the counter. “Hello,” she said to the barista. “One coffee, please. Black, three sugars.” Sighing, Mary turned back to Sherlock. “You know, you won’t be bored.”

“Mmm…not generally fond of the game revolving around the few people that actually matter in this world.” Mary fell silent at that, and before long he was next in the queue. “Two coffees. First black, two sugars. Next one milk, four sugars.” After a few minutes, coffees in hand, he turned toward where Mary was waiting for him, an irritatingly knowing look on her face.

“Two coffees?”

He walked on ahead of her and took a sip of his coffee. “Very astute of you, Mrs. Watson.”

“Hmm…milk, four sugars…just how Molly likes it. This wouldn’t have anything to do with the fact that she threw you out of her flat this morning and we’re going to see her now?”

“Potentially.”

“Or the fact that you fancy her?”

He nearly choked on his coffee. “Don’t be ridiculous. I had already planned to pick up a nephritic kidney from her this afternoon. There is the possibility that our exchange this morning could impede that acquisition. Coffee would make for a convenient bribe to counter that. I would be keeping as careful an eye on any of you, though the Army doctor and retired assassin hardly need protecting.” He shot her a side-eyed glimpse before returning to his coffee, muttering. “And I esteem her the same as I do anyone else.”

“Of course you do. How silly of me.” Her patronizing tone gave way to an appreciative hum as she took a lengthy sip from her coffee. They climbed the steps to Bart’s as Mary let out a strained laugh, followed by an even more harried sigh, “Oh, good lord am I exhausted. Espionage was less exhausting than parenting; she never sleeps!”

A put-upon sigh fell heavily from his lips at the topic shift. Offspring. “Unlikely.”

Mary poked him playfully in the arm. “Oh, what do you know? You haven’t even held her yet.” 

The accusatory edge to Mary’s voice actually sparked a thread of guilt, which he summarily brushed off. “She can’t even properly hold her own head up yet!” Really, that was the most absurd thing of all. Appreciation for the evolution of increased brain capacity aside, it was a rather deficient model when an organism couldn’t even hold up it’s own head.

Mary laughed at him. Laughed. “It’s not going to pop off like a grape, Sherlock.” 

Oh, he knew it wouldn’t. He also knew that the idea of holding that miniature human intimidated him more than any prospect ever had. She was so fragile, so unexpectedly endearing. Every time he saw Evelyn Jean Watson, it pulled at something inside of him; something soft, something unnervingly vast that terrified him to even dream of exploring. Give him gun-wielding psychopaths any day… 

It was time for a subject change. He opened his mouth to speak, but Mary beat him to it. “Enough of babies; I love her to pieces, but I’m up to my ears in babies.” Her voice dropped as they rounded the corner. “I’m treating this outing as a sort of holiday.” She shot him a sweet smile. “You’re stuck with me for the next few hours.”

“Delightful.”

She lightly swatted his arm with the back of her free hand. “Oh, we both know you’re enjoying yourself.”

He smirked to himself as he took a sip from his coffee; she wasn’t wrong. They walked the rest of the way in silence, each drinking heavily from their coffee. Finally, they made it to the door of the lab, Mary opening the door for him. Once inside, he stopped short; Molly was sat on one of the stools, pen scribbling furiously to paper and several petri dishes and slides carefully placed around her.

Mary brushed past him. “Good morning, Molly.”

At the sound of Mary’s lively greeting, Molly’s hand froze on the paper, her eyes darting up to stare at the wall in front of her for a short moment. With a quick, deep breath, her head turned to meet Mrs. Watson’s. “Hello, Mary.” She offered her a small, but earnest smile. “How are you feeling? Been ages since I’ve seen you! How’s Evey?” 

“Been ages since I’ve seen much of anyone, really. She’s fine, just not such a great sleeper. The days of solid REM cycles seem to be ancient history, I’m afraid…but that’s why there’s coffee! I practically live off this stuff now.”

Molly’s gentle laugh was soft and endearing—much like the woman herself—and it hit him square in the chest as he moved further into the room. Placid and genuine, she turned more fully to Mary. “I’m glad you’re finding time for you. That’s important.” He watched with no small amount of regret as her bright, smiling eyes flicked to his—and every ounce of softness swiftly drained out of them.

She swallowed, her jaw clenching briefly before she lowered her head back to her notes. “Sherlock.” Stilted and cold, there was even less warmth in her voice.

His eyes flicked up to Mary’s, and she merely looked from the coffee in his hand and then pointedly to Molly, nodding her head once in silent encouragement. That done, Mary drifted to the other side of the room, busying herself looking at nothing of any significance to her whatsoever. 

“Molly.” He carefully kept any trace of emotion out of his voice as he set the second coffee—her coffee—down before her. “Here.” Not good. He had practically snapped that word at her.

She didn’t lift her head, but the pen in her hand stilled once more. “What’s that?”

“Coffee, obviously.” Affected as he was, he couldn’t help the dry condescension that filled those two simple words. Mary’s eyes darted to his in disapproval, Molly’s head snapped up, her eyes boring into his with no small amount of displeasure. Really not good.

“Obviously.” She parroted back to him and shook her head in bitter reproach, her eyes falling to her task again. “If this is about the kidney, I already got that all set up for you this morning. So you don’t need to worry about it.”

Even though it had been his justification to Mary—and himself—he had not realized just how much of a lie it truly was until it left Molly’s lips. Guilt twisting at his insides—really, this was becoming a bit much for a single day—Sherlock sighed, cringing slightly at the melancholy of it. “Consider it...an apology.” His eyes flicked to her brown mug, her earlier coffee only half drunk with a forming film on the top. “I thought it would be preferable to your customary hospital swill.”

There must have been something of appeal in his voice, for her eyes raised to his, a touch of warmth lighting their brown depths and the ghost of a smile tugged at the corner of her mouth. “Oh, you didn’t need to…but thank you.”

He held her gaze for a lingering moment and he couldn’t help the smile that tugged at his lips. “How are you feeling?”

Her eyes widened infinitesimally before they dropped from his. “Um…okay. Still a bit upset…but I’m okay.”

“Your nightmare or…?” that I broke into your flat and tried to kiss you. Oh yes, there was not a single possibility of that being said out loud. He studied her face carefully, narrowing his eyes as he raked over the dark circles under her eyes and the worn lines around her mouth.

She sucked in a breath, her head tilting to the side as her eyes met his, reluctant yet apologetic. “Sorry…but…I don’t really want to talk about it. As to…the rest…I think I said enough and I’m not all that interested in more, thanks.”

He had expected no different, but it did not keep her words from stinging. A little bit at a loss for what to say next, he settled on their default interaction. “What are you working on?”

She snatched up the change of topic greedily. “54 year old man suffering from atrial fibrillation, advanced insulin-dependent diabetes, countless severe allergies, found dead in his flat. Oh, he was also a heroin addict.” She put the pen down and locked her eyes onto his, the reprimand in them nearly tangible. “Looks like the drug abuse was the culprit.”

He scoffed. “Oh, I’m sure those other conditions…” Her face wiped clean of any softness of emotion as she stared him down. Apparently, she felt he needed to stop talking. His eyes dropped from hers and he cleared his throat uncomfortably. “So the kidney is just over there? Wonderful.” He retreated hastily to the far side of the room, and carefully removed the cooler with the gloriously unscathed and nephritic kidney from the fridge.

Mary popped up next to him and muttered so that only he could hear. “I can’t believe you brought me just as a buffer so that you could get a kidney from Molly. That’s childish, Sherlock.”

His lips pressed together in a thin line. “Perhaps.”

Rolling her eyes at him, Mary snorted a laugh. “Oh, you’re right, you don’t fancy her at all.”

“Shhh!” His eyes widened before they darted toward Molly to see if she heard the exchange. 

“And oh, is she angry with you.”

The door to the lab burst open, knocking into the table beside it, causing Mary and Sherlock’s heads to whip toward the door. 

“Who cares about a purse snatching, I’ve got a triple homicide to investigate.” Lestrade snapped into his mobile. He threw a large file onto the table closest to the door before rubbing his hand across his forehead. “I don’t care whose purse it was. It could be the bloody Queen’s and I’d still tell you the same. What about Hughes, can’t he take a look?” His hand balled into a fist as the person at the other end of the line gave a lengthy reply, the result of which was clearly not what Lestrade wanted to hear. “Come on, Lady whats-her-face’s purse snatching has to trump that?” He squeezed his eyes shut and took a deep breath as he jabbed a finger onto the screen of his phone to hang it up. “God knows I love it when I have to do other people’s jobs for them.”

“Sarcasm?” Sherlock muttered to Mary as Lestrade jabbed his finger onto the lock button on his phone before he slipped it back into his pocket.

“Ye-ah,” she whispered back to him.

Across the room, Molly moved to the table on the side, scooping up three large envelopes. 

“Molly, I need—”

“The three toxicology and autopsy reports you asked for.” She offered him a tentative smile as she handed them over. “Besides the multiple stab wounds, there wasn’t anything too exciting.” She winced, “Not exciting…out of the ordinary.” She picked up the coffee Sherlock had just brought her. “Sorry.” She muttered before taking a long sip, her eyes darting to Sherlock’s briefly before returning to Lestrade. “Did you still need to see the Jane Doe?”

“Yeah, we think we may have found out who she is and contacted what hopefully will end up being next of kin. I’m gonna need you to wheel her out for me in about twenty minutes and I suppose we’ll find out if we’re right.” He turned to Sherlock and Mary then, but his eyes settled on Mary. His eyes lit up and he opened his mouth, before the atrociously predictable words started pouring out. “Hello Mary! How’re you doing? How’s the baby?”

“All good! Eating well. She’s already a little drama queen like her father! If only I could get her to sleep. She hasn’t…”

Oh, dear lord. This is what hell must be like.

Their conversation droned on about married life and babies—Lestrade was surprisingly, and irritatingly, buoyant about babies; he made up for it by the touch of bitterness that pervaded their discourse of matrimony. Divorce hardly leads to flowing sentiments of marriage, it would seem.

Sherlock could not help the way his eyes fell to Molly as she continued to work; face studiously down as she scribbled findings into her current report, punctuated only by her occasional move to the microscope. Long, nimble fingers removed and placed slides on the stage before fiddling with the nobs to bring them into focus. Her hair was tied back in a simple band, the bulk of it spilling over her right shoulder as she worked. As if she could feel his eyes on her, she lifted her head and her eyes immediately sought his. Dropping his before she could notice that he had been looking at her, his hands immediately began fiddling with the side of the cooler to observe the kidney in an attempt to look busy.

His mind whirling with all things Molly Hooper and nothing at all to do with the object in question, he opened the cooler to look down on the organ. 

‘Yup. That’s a kidney.’

Rolling his eyes at his own lackluster thoughts, Sherlock stared down at the organ that had been the treat of his entire week…until this morning. He willed his mind to focus on the task at hand…any task for that matter. When his mind finally narrowed in on what Lestrade had said to Molly before they began their conversation on domestic life, he perked up considerably. “Sounds like you need help with your case, George.”

The steady exchange between Mary and Lestrade fell to a hault and the Detective Inspector let out a despairing sigh. “What have I told you? Just stop trying, mate. Lestrade. To you, I’m just Lestrade. And God, no, not yet. If this lead turns out to be a dead end, then I may give you a ring.”

Hardly promising, but it was better than no case…which was unfortunately where he found himself at present.

“Oh, Molly,” Lestrade grabbed the large file he had brought with him. “I think some of your things got mixed in with this file you gave me the other day.” Digging his hand in the file, he pulled out a few sheets of paper and an envelope. “I’ve got ‘em right here if you wanna take a look.” He turned back to Mary, picking up his conversation again without pause. 

Molly, with a perplexed frown on her face, gave the papers a passing look before she turned her attention to the envelope; a simple, white envelope with what appeared to be a single word—likely ‘Molly’—written across it. Her eyes widened slightly as her jaw set. Even from the distance across the room he could see how her hands began to tremble as she flipped over the envelope and tore it open. 

Mary and Lestrade laughed, drawing his eyes briefly. Then he focused once more on Molly, the sounds of their boisterous conversation fading into the background as he carefully started to move toward her. Watching each and every nuance of thought and emotion pass through every twitch of her muscles, he observed her pull in a steadying breath before she slipped the card from the confines of the envelope. As her eyes absorbed the words printed on the front of the card, they widened in fear. With an almost imperceptible shake of her head, she opened the card—and immediately snapped it shut, flipping it face down onto the envelope and clutching it to her chest.

“Molly?” He asked cautiously; her reaction was completely at odds with the response people usually had at receiving a card. “What’s wrong?”

Lestrade and Mary fell silent at his voice, Mary’s eyes darting back and forth between the two of them before settling on what was in Molly’s hands. 

Hands trembling only slightly now, Molly shifted her weight and shrugged. A small, nervous laugh left her lips as she took a step back. She flashed Sherlock a tight smile that stopped short of her eyes. “Nothing, really. Just a…bit of bad news from an…old friend. Nothing. So…I’ll just go and…go and wheel out that Jane Doe.” Envelope in hand, she slipped out of the lab, leaving her work half-finished—a severe oddity for Molly Hooper—and three very perplexed people staring after her.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for all of the comments/follows/favs/kudos. Every single one of them makes me a bit giddy! And always and forever thanks to my wonderfully talented big sis/beta Alethnya.

The chill air of the morgue rushed over her, cooling her heated skin. The familiar smell of decay filled every pull of air through her nostrils before she blew each breath out in an attempt to fight the relentless waves of the panic attack that had started to take hold of her body. Heart still pounding in her ears, her hearing began to pull away from the muffled fog it had slipped into only moments before.

 

Without giving herself the opportunity for second-guessing, she rushed over to the drawer where she kept a few personal items outside of her locker. Grabbing up the small pill case, she grabbed two pills and took them with the small bottle of water she kept with them—just in case. Her anxiety medication; something that had been part of her life off and on since her father got sick, seemed to be becoming more and more necessary over the past few months. She knew she should have been taking them regularly—taking them _during_ a panic attack was hardly their intended use. However, medications were something she fought taking on a regular basis, instead saving them for when they were absolutely necessary.

 

Her eyes darted to the card she had thrown to the counter top in her haste to retrieve her medication. Garlands of flowers framed flowing penmanship—the lyrics to Beautiful Dreamer. Taking in a steadying breath, she opened the card. In the center of the card were the words _“Lovely woman, your heart beats for me. Living in death, it fills me with Glee!”_ under the words were a line of x’s. The last X was a little bit darker, written with a little more force. The final pen stroke slashed from the tip of the letter and ran jagged up the page. Her eyes widened as she absorbed every single X that filled the entire space of the card, framing those four rows of text in methodical chaos. From tiny to large, light to dark, the X’s jumped around the inside of the card.

 

It was Jim…it had to be…but…there was nothing here that stated that explicitly. This so easily could be just a coincidence. She’d been receiving things like this sporadically throughout the past few months, but nothing ever came of it. This could so easily be her own paranoia giving voice to something that wasn’t even real—wasn’t even as issue. Oh yes, let’s hear it from the woman on anxiety medication how a bloke she’d once dated is haunting her dreams and leaving cryptic things for her to find at work and at home. No…that didn’t sound completely mental _at all._

 

Pushing the drawer closed with more force than necessary, Molly’s hands gripped the counter top as she fought to get herself completely under control. She had work to do. She had people that were relying on her. In only about 15 minutes or so, a terrified person was potentially going to walk into her world and fall apart at the sight of their loved one _lying there,_ cold and lifeless. It happened every day. It had become commonplace where nothing of that sort ever should. But it was her job to be composed, to be sympathetic or stoic—whatever they needed before they were fed to the wolves of the cash-driven mortuary business. It wasn’t part of her job description, not at all. But Molly knew just how it felt to be the person standing over the corpse of someone that had been her entire world…how could she _not_ help however she could?

 

Of course, they just as easily could walk in and not know the person in question at all. When no one claimed the person lying cold on her slab—that _didn’t_ happen every day, and that way always shook her, disturbed her far more than the crying families ever could.  The idea of being alone and nameless in the end…

 

When it had been discovered by her friend Meena that she was letting Sherlock sleep in her flat— _in her bed_ —while still being engaged to Tom; everything had gone south after that. Her friends had pretty much shunned her. No one believed her when she told the truth—that nothing ever came of it. That she had promised herself to Tom and never had entertained the idea of being unfaithful. _That_ was something that she would never, _ever_ do. Besides which Sherlock, in his usual Sherlock manner, hadn’t seemed interested in that sort of thing at all. This morning was the first time in nearly three years he had tried… _that._ Up until this morning it had only been glances, smiles, lingering looks that she couldn’t help but drop her eyes from. Mainly because she knew all of them for what they really were—manipulations. He didn’t really think of her that way or care about her that way. Oh, she _knew_ he could care deeply…but not about her. For whatever reason he had tried to kiss her that morning, it wasn’t because he wanted to. It was because he wanted something, and she was the only one that could do it for him that he trusted.

 

Molly now found herself in the uncomfortable position of having been abandoned by close friends. All of her not-so-close friends and acquaintances all had full lives of their own.  She _did_ have Toby…

 

She shook her head to clear the thoughts that were cluttering up her brain. She could think about all of this later, it was time for work. Shoving the card into the pocket of her lab coat, she set to wheeling out the deceased that Lestrade had asked for and then set to work filling out a few reports while she waited. When Lestrade— _and_ Sherlock and Mary _—_ entered the Morgue with the woman who was to be identifying the body, she had completely composed herself. As soon as the woman laid eyes upon the body, she started to cry and left the morgue with Lestrade on her heels.

 

Leaving her, Sherlock and Mary standing around the body in stilted silence.  “Looks as if Greg’s found the name of his victim.” Mary chimed in to the stretching quiet.

 

She looked at Mary and nodded. “Yeah…it looks that way.” Here she turned her attention to Sherlock; her eyes slid to his, causing an inevitable surge of warmth that hummed through her, softening the cold Morgue air.  “You’ll probably want to go with him.”

 

“Dull. I looked though your reports after you left—much to the dismay of Lestrade. Took merely three deductions to peg _the grieving loved_ _one_ as the culprit. I told Lestrade as much, but he requires _evidence.”_ He let out a long sigh, his eyes taking in the details of her hair and face before settling once more on her eyes. “He’ll figure it out soon enough.”

 

Molly couldn’t help her eyes widening as they shot to the closed doors of the morgue.  She’d been that close to a murderer. She’d _spoken_ to the woman that did this?

 

“Oh, yeah. She’s a terrible liar.” Mary looked over the multiple lacerations over the victim’s body, her face crinkling with scorn. ”Bit messy, too.” She sipped from her coffee, though Molly thought she could detect the faintest traces of a smile peeking out from the edges of the coffee cup.

 

Sherlock turned to shoot an amused look at Mary. “It’s never tidy when business mixes with a crime of passion. And completely right on the lying bit, she’s an appalling liar.”

 

Mary laughed. “Oh please, you’re not one to talk. You lay it on so thick that _she,_ ” Mary pointed to the cadaver on the table in front of them, “would be able to tell when you’re fibbing, let alone _lying._ ”

 

Molly shot a look between the two of them. “Is there a difference?”

 

“Oh, loads.  Fibbing’s for little stuff…lying’s the big stuff.”

 

Sherlock made a face of consideration. “Mm, fair point, though potentially splitting hairs.”

 

“Oh, you’re just…” Mary’s phone chimed. She dug it out of her pocket, face scrunching as she read the text. “SOS from John. Evey spit up all over his chair. Ugh, they never tell you this stuff when you’re pregnant. Everything’s all sweet smelling babies and lullabies…not projectile vomit and rubbish sleep patterns. Sorry, gotta go.” She glanced down at the body on the table. “Though that’s fine by me. This stuff always gives me the creeps.”

 

Sherlock scoffed. “Really? I should think…” He glanced at Molly, “this sort of thing would seem relatively underwhelming for…someone of your background?”

 

Molly narrowed her eyes at Sherlock. Doctor’s offices were hardly the same thing as Morgues.  Plenty of the doctors in this hospital kept as far away from here as they could manage. Or maybe he just forgot that most people have problems with death in general?

 

Mary shot Sherlock a look and muttered under her breath. “I don’t usually stick around for this part.”

 

_Huh?_ Molly couldn’t have heard her right…

Mary shot her a smile. “Good to see you, Molly. I’ll be round more. Nice to feel like a whole person again. Though, I’ve gotta say…it’s only been a few hours and I miss my baby girl.” With that Mary Watson disappeared from the Morgue.

 

Standing in silence for several seconds. Molly glanced down at the cadaver. “Was that woman really a murderer?”

 

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed in confusion. “How….Ah, yes, _that_ woman. Of course.”

 

Her eyes fell to the body before her and she did a double-take. She could have sworn the eyes had been closed…

 

“You aren’t in the way of a crime syndicate’s payout, so I’d imagine you’re safe enough from her.”

 

She tore her eyes away from the clouded orbs of the body before her before lifting her eyes to his. “No, it’s not that it’s just…she looked so normal. It’s always sobering when such nice looking people do such horrible things.” Jim immediately came to mind. The man before her? A little bit, though he never pretended to be anything other than what he was. She realized she had been holding his gaze a little too long and so she dropped her eyes, fully intending to complete her task and put the body back into its prior spot.

 

She froze. Not only were the eyes open, but now the head was turned toward her.  Cold unseeing eyes were boring impossibly into hers. She took a step back from the body and her eyes shot to Sherlock’s in disbelief. But there was nothing but confusion and concern in his gaze.

 

“Molly? Molly, what’s wrong?”

 

“I…”

 

She looked down once more, the clouded, sightless eyes darkened to black. The mouth opened and a thick, black substance began to ooze from the mouth and eyes as a strangled scream bubbled up out of its throat. The monstrous voice, the same one from her dream, grated across her ears and made every hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “ _Molly_ …”

 

She threw herself away from the table; in the next moment Sherlock was grabbing her arms to keep her steady as she fought to get out his grip. “The face! Sherlock…” Her voice trailed off as the cadaver came back into view—the face had returned back to normal. She stood frozen; the eyes were closed, head forward and not a trace of the black substance in sight. That didn’t make any sense. She _saw_ it.

 

“Molly,” His hand applied gentle pressure to her arm—a reassurance and a plea for attention. “There’s nothing there.”

 

She took in a shaking breath and closed her eyes. The image of the black eyes and oozing mouth flashing through her mind, causing her to open her eyes with a shocked inhale. “No.” She swallowed and took a step back from the table. “There’s not.”

 

With one last glance at the completely normal face, she turned to face Sherlock. Wide and frightened, her eyes sought his. Her breath rose and fell with shuddering inhales as she struggled to find her voice.

 

His thumb rubbed gently, soothingly where he still grasped her arm. Concern sharpened yet somehow softened his penetrating gaze. “What did you see?”

 

She pulled away from his grasp and let her eyes fall. Molly couldn’t help the wave of confusion and lingering fear that she couldn’t quite shake. “I saw…it had…” She blew out a breath and look up into his eyes that were still filled with that same wary concern. “Nothing. Sorry. I saw nothing.”

 

Lying to him was one of the most pointless things she could ever attempt, but what was the alternative? Tell him what she just saw? Not a chance.

 

“What did you see?”

 

She gave a little laugh before she moved to zip up the body bag and set to putting the body back where it belonged. “Oh, just something silly. Need more sleep, I suppose.”

 

His fingers wrapped around her wrist, halting her even as he pulled her back to him. “What was in that card?”

 

Her eyes traced the outline of the buttons of his shirt. She refused to look at him. “I already told you.”

 

“No.” His fingers tapped the underside of her chin. She raised her face to his and he narrowed his eyes at her. “You _lied_.”

 

Ugh. He was hardly one to accuse someone else of lying, but she _really_ didn’t feel like getting into all of that again. Especially since he _was_ right. She’d lied.

 

“Please don’t…I’m…I’m fine. I just need more sleep. Honestly.”

 

Yet again extracting herself from his grasp, she finished what she was doing. She needed to finish her work back in the lab. She needed to finish up in here. Turning around to tell him that he better just take his kidney and go home, she pushed a stray strand of hair out of her face.

 

With a sigh she looked up and her blood ran cold. Fear, piercing and suffocating, stole through her body. There, in the corner—an impossible shadow in the too bright lights of the morgue—stood the figure from her nightmare. Her hearing and her vision tunneled and she could distantly hear Sherlock speaking…calling to her…as the figure slowly started to move toward her. The lights in the morgue started to flicker off with every step that it took. Sherlock was standing in front of her now, shaking her arms, grabbing her face in an attempt to force her unfaltering gaze away from the figure before her. 

 

“LOOK AT ME!” Sherlock’s panicked voice bellowed.

 

With a scream she threw herself backward, jarring herself on the wall of body refrigerators.  She pushed herself to the side and her eyes scoured every inch of the morgue. Nothing…again, there was nothing.

 

She turned back to Sherlock and held his now panicked gaze for a moment before putting her hands over her face and falling back to sag against the wall.

 

He didn’t see that one either. _Oh, God_ …she was losing it. She was going insane.

 

_“What did you see?”_

Without letting herself think, she launched herself away from the wall and rushed out of the morgue.

 

 

* * *

 

 

 

“You sure you’re all right?”

 

The deep yet gentle drawl of her landlord soothed only a smidge as he let her into her flat. “Yeah, I’m okay.”

 

“Not like you to forget your things at… _work_.”

 

She walked into her flat and flipped the light on. Turning back to face the fatherly concern etched on his aging face, Molly couldn’t help the bitter twist of her lips. No matter how they knew her or how much they liked her, people always had difficulties dealing with what her work entailed. “I’m fine…just a bad day. So I’m gonna rest. Talk to you tomorrow; thanks again, Fred. ”

 

Offering the man a small smile, she closed the door before walking over and throwing herself onto her sofa. Absolutely terrified and shaken, Molly had torn out of the hospital and rushed home. Only to realize that once she had gotten home, she had left everything—including her key—at Bart’s. It definitely hadn’t been her brightest decision…but all things considered…she wasn’t exactly in her right mind. Apparently, she was deciding to go mad instead.

 

A knocking on her door snapped her out of her thoughts, causing her to jump and nearly fall off of the sofa. With a groan, she stumbled to the door, her hand finding the knob with a sigh. “Fred, I told you…” Instead of short, round and friendly she found tall, lanky and intimidating.

 

 

Her eyes settled on him where he stood, unexpectedly holding her bag in one hand. It wasn’t really a surprise that he knew the code to her locker. However, it most certainly _was_ a surprise that he’d be so… _thoughtful_.

 

“Thought you might like to get into your flat. Though I see you already had that well in hand.” He offered, almost as if he had sensed her thoughts. Well, him being _him,_ he probably had.

 

“Thank you.” She took the bag from him and they stood in silence. Awkward silence. Sherlock’s eyes never left her, so she kept her own eyes fixed on the floor. She knew what she would see when she looked at him. He was looking at her like she was some great puzzle to be solved. Maybe he _was_ just seeing her as nothing more than a walking string of deductions right now. What a treat her psychosis must be for his great big brain: poor Molly Hooper, the Consulting Detective’s greatest obligation.  She grimaced at that—little too bitter, that thought was.

 

“So…tea?” Yuck. That was _far_ too falsely cheerful. She turned away from him only for him to grab her wrist. The action made her freeze, her eyes pulled to his hand where it gently, yet firmly had hold of her.

 

“What’s happened? What did you see?”

 

There was gentleness in his voice that caught her off guard. Her eyes darted up to his. “Nothing’s wrong. I told you…I’m fine.”

 

His eyes narrowed at her, the gentleness sharpening with scrutiny. “You’re terrified, hallucinating and having nightmares. You were quick to jump to Moriarty this morning when I said I wanted to keep you safe.  Despite… _everything_ between us, stop lying to me. _What was in that card?_ ”

 

Frustratingly powerless and breathless before the onslaught of those piercing eyes, she swallowed down the nervous lump that had settled in her throat. With her free hand she reached in to her pocket and pulled out the card. She pressed it into his hand before turning away from him. He released her immediately and she turned to make some tea.

 

Going into the kitchen to put on the kettle—thank god she had gone out to fetch milk that morning before work—Molly waited for him to walk into her flat. She grabbed two mugs and set them on the counter. He would probably say no and if he did say yes, then she was sure to see the looks of disdain when he set eyes on her bulky mugs. He never said those criticisms out loud, though…wonder why that was…

 

“Is this the first time you’ve been sent something like this?”

 

His voice made her jump, spinning around to find him glowering at her from the other side of the counter. “This is the first _card.”_

“But you have received similar messages, _yes_?”

 

She stood up a little taller to prepare herself. Judging by the look on his face and the tension in his voice, he wasn’t going to like this answer. “Yes.”

 

“Give them to me. I know that you kept them, let me see them.” The hard edge to his voice made it obvious; he wouldn’t take ‘no’ for an answer.

 

With a sigh, she turned around and grabbed the small stack of papers shoved in one of the drawers of her kitchen. Without looking at him, she walked over to where he stood, hand outstretched. He plucked the small pile from her hand and she turned to head back to the kitchen. She braced her hands on the counter before daring to look at him.

 

Only halfway through the pile, his eyes widened incredulously. “And you didn’t come to me for help?”

 

“What _help_? It’s probably just one of the lab techs having a bit of fun with me. There’s never anything _bad._ ” Certainly wasn’t anything _good,_ either. But in the past she had a tendency to overreact and panic at situations. Now she made a conscious effort to remember that tendency. To brush off the things that normally had her a panicky mess in a matter of seconds. This time was no different. “They’re just silly things.”

 

“These are references to your blog and your interactions with Moriarty there.”

 

Her stomach plummeted. She had completely forgotten about that ridiculous thing. The fact that _he_ hadn’t— _nevermind_. Not right now. She stormed around the counter and grabbed the card from his hand. “Anyone could be looking at that stupid thing! Doesn’t mean it’s… _Jim_.”

 

“It could be him, it could be anyone—more the reason you should have _come to me_. Whoever sent these to you is _playing with you_. Does your little brain even comprehend the trouble you could potentially find yourself in? _This,”_ he shook the pile at her, “Looks as if you’ve attracted the attentions of a deranged stalker. How do you expect me to protect you…”

 

“I already told you that you don’t need to worry about it! You don’t _owe_ me anything. You don’t _have_ to protect me.” Gripping the edge of the counter that stood between them, she lobbed a glare at him. “And I’m _not_ yours to protect, Sherlock. Not even a little bit.”

 

He fell silent at that. His jaw set, his lips thinning into a grim line as his fists clenched at his sides. As he looked at her, the steel of his eyes began to crack, revealing the _fear_ that was starting to bleed through.

 

She couldn’t look at him when he looked at her like that. When he looked at her like that…it was almost as if he _really_ cared. As if the idea of her being in danger wasn’t just a puzzle for him to solve, or an obligation, but an idea that made him just as afraid as her. Which was just ridiculous to think about. “They don’t mean anything.” The words didn’t even sit well on her tongue. They _did_ mean something. That little stack of papers was a physical representation of every single thing that she was having nightmares about.

 

Turning her attention back to the tea, she dropped the tea bags into their mugs before pouring the boiled water into them. She set the timer and took a slow, calming breath.  “I know you’re just trying to help,” she turned around, “but I…”

 

Her words died. Shadows crept into the periphery of her vision: an impossibility, as the room was flooded with light. The shadows felt as if they were taunting her, trying to touch her. She dug the heels of her hands into her eyes and rubbed hard in an attempt to scrub the memories from her eyes and the paranoia from her mind. She pulled her hands away from her eyes, sparkles and dots peppering her vision as Sherlock slid into focus. The shadows were gone.

 

“I just need to sleep.” Honestly, that was the _last_ thing she needed right now. The idea of falling asleep absolutely terrified her. What was the alternative? Keep standing here in front of Sherlock and struggling to look like she wasn’t actually losing her mind? She didn’t have the composure for that at the moment.

 

“You’re coming back to Baker Street.”

 

“I’m what? Why would I do that?”

 

“So that I can keep an eye on you. Can’t have you half way across town. That’s horribly inconvenient.” She opened her mouth to protest, but he beat her to it. “Unless you’d rather lift your ban on my presence in your flat?”

 

“No, I’d rather that _you_ just went to _your_ home and _I’ll_ stay in _my_ home. We talked about all this... _several times_. I’m. Fine.” Nevermind the fact that she felt so anxious and paranoid that she felt as if she were about ready to vibrate out of her skin. Not enough sleep. That’s all it was.

 

“You can’t possibly…”

 

“Don’t make me kick you out of my flat twice in one day.” She gave him a beseeching look. He was trying to help her. No matter the motivation, he was trying to help her. She just couldn’t right now. Looking at him now, she realized just how much she didn’t want him to leave, but she _needed_ him to. She just wanted him to see how much she needed him to listen to her.  “Please?”

 

The timer chirped from behind her. Turning away from Sherlock, she pulled the tea bags out of the mugs and laid them in the sink.

 

She busied herself with the tea, keeping her eyes fixed on her task as she heard and _felt_ him move to stand beside her. “Tonight, I’m on a case. Sleep is unlikely.” The rough baritone of his voice rushed up her spine, drawing her face to his. “Do not hesitate to contact me if need be.”

She simply nodded.

 

“As it stands,” And here she could see the reluctance in his eyes. “I think I’ll do a once over of your flat before I leave. If you don’t mind?”

 

Molly shrugged. It was as much energy for a response as she could muster at that moment. With a tight-lipped nod he disappeared down the hall, likely checking the locks on her windows. She grabbed the milk, preparing his exactly as he preferred it before dumping it into a travel cup. She might be kicking him out, but that didn’t mean she couldn’t be making up for it a little.

 

She walked out of the kitchen, travel cup in hand and waited for him to come back. He swept back into the room, his eyes falling to the cup in her hands.

 

Her eyes dipped to the mug as she held it out to him. “You can still drink your tea this way.”

 

He slid his hand around the cup, his fingers brushing against hers as she slid hers away.  “Thank you. Molly?”

 

He waited until her eyes met his. His determination lending an edge of steely grey to his gaze. “Your windows are all locked—take care they stay that way.”

 

Determined to disbelieve any threat that ridiculous card might imply, she bit her tongue to keep the argument from breaking free—it was just a card. It was nothing. Instead she nodded again. “Good night, Sherlock.”

 

With a final lingering look, he walked out of her flat, locking the door behind him.

 

With a sigh she grabbed her tea and headed to her bedroom. Sitting in bed, reading a book with a hot cup of tea sounded like a brilliant idea. She could fill her head up with another world and with any luck, that’s what she’d dream about that night. If she focused on the fantasy, her mind might stop jumping to the things she thought she saw out of the corner of her eye. Her bed was soft and warm and she couldn’t help the small groan that crept out of her throat as her aching body sunk into the plush pillows and covers.

 

Of course, this might not be the best way to stay awake…

 

 

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna try to have another chapter posted before Christmas, but I'm not going to make any promises there. Just in case: Happy whatever-you-celebrate, everyone!


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: I own not a thing.
> 
> A/N: I hope everyone had an awesome holiday season! I had a temporary scare/set back-I spilled water all over my laptop and it stopped working for a week and a half. I had written it off as toast but then one day I just decided to turn it on just in case...it's alive! I am sooooo happy. I was typing on this super old brick of a laptop and I forgot how annoying that stupid paper clip guy was on Word. Anyway, I'm rambling. Thank you everyone for reading/reviewing/following/favoriting/kudos-ing...it fills me with the warm fuzzies. Oh, and another quick reminder that I am American and apologize profusely for any missed Americanisms. Here be chapter 4...

There was a link. There was a connection between these scraps of paper and Moriarty. There had to be. From seemingly inconsequential to undeniably suspicious, each note down the pile had set a lump in Sherlock’s throat.

                                                                                                    

She had kept each note. Each message had unnerved Molly enough for her to set them aside and keep them. Had she also been pouring over them regularly to find a link? To piece together what they could possibly mean; _whom_ they could possibly be from? Judging by her current mental state, it very much appeared that she had been doing just that. Had she done it daily or simply each time a new note appeared? The paranoia, the isolation, compounded with her anxiety…it would be enough to drive anyone mad. _Why hadn’t she come to him sooner?_

 

The simplest note of all, a simple, ‘hi’ typed on a yellow note was next to be observed again. If it had simply been _penned_ , that might not have warranted suspicion—of course, that would depend entirely on when it was found and where—but _typed? Typed_ implied intelligent anonymity with malicious intent. Every single note was typed. Whoever sent them wished to leave as little leading evidence as possible. After careful scrutiny, even the papers they were typed on were mass-produced, which meant that there was no chain of evidence there.

 

_Irritatingly enough._

The earlier messages, the seemingly innocuous ones, perhaps might mean the time and location of where these notes were found _was_ the key after all…

 

Which meant talking to Molly to glean the required information, a task that would be far more manageable if she had not thrown him out of her flat _._

 

_Again._

 

Setting the papers aside, he reached for the card; the one Molly had been sent just a few hours prior. _This_ was another thing entirely. _This_ had a purpose. This card, this latest message, bore the irrefutable weight of significance. The dramatics—or _over_ -dramatic, as it were—the playfully sinister tone; this piece of evidence led him to one conclusion, and one conclusion only. Well, it _could_ , as he had told Molly earlier, be someone else entirely, a copycat.

 

It could be, but Sherlock knew that it wasn’t. With every _second_ that ticked by while he observed and studied the papers before him, certainty settled like a jagged stone in the pit of his stomach. The warning that Moriarty had given him so long ago echoed in his mind and set his nerves on _fire…_

 

This _was_ the work of Moriarty.

 

Now, how to _prove_ it? Everyone _else_ always required an excess of unnecessary information for them to see what was plainly standing before them. If this were anyone else, the course would be clear: use them as bait and wait for their own private villain to strike. He dismissed the idea before it had even fully begun to form in his head. The memory of Molly’s wide, terrified eyes and the heels of her shaking hands pressing into her eyes…No, Molly would _never_ be used as bait. The course was unclear, the purpose of these _messages_ was unclear, though he had a very good idea of the intent. One thing _was_ certain and irrevocably clear…

 

Molly Hooper was in danger.

 

As he stood before his long, mahogany table, sunlight spilled in through the enormous windows, harsh and bright; time was running short. He needed to speak with Molly. He needed to…

 

“Sherlock!”

 

John’s persistent shout pulled him from the expanse of his Mind Palace. The papers were strewn about on the coffee table before him. John was looking at him as if he had been calling his name for ages. Judging by the set of his mouth, he had indeed been doing just that, “yes?”

 

“Bout time. I’ve been trying to get your attention for twenty minutes.” The accusatory tone in John’s voice was hardly encouraging for engaging in conversation.

 

Sherlock sighed. “What a waste of time.” He’d never understood why everyone felt the need to divulge their timeline when he had more pressing things to attend to. Who had the time or the patience for punctuality and propriety when there was a case to be solved? If he was in his mind palace, it was for far more important things than any gossip or idle speech that was likely to pour out of their mouths entirely unprovoked.

 

John cleared his throat. “What’s all that?” He motioned to the papers Sherlock had carefully lined up along the table, completely at odds with the haphazard state of the rest of the flat.

 

Sherlock could not help but roll his eyes. Wasn’t it obvious? “A case.”

 

John perked up slightly at that. “You picked up a case since this afternoon?”

 

“No, I picked up a case since an hour ago.” Sherlock waved his hand, dismissing John to the kitchen, “kettle’s boiled.” Now was really not the time for banal chitchat. Pressing his hands together, he rubbed them against his mouth as he examined the papers before him yet again.

 

The shuffle of John’s feet moved across the worn and dust-covered floors of 221B. He stopped in the kitchen, probably in front of the kettle. Sherlock heard the faint ting of fingernail to glass as John flicked the surface. “Well, it might have been.”

 

The water in the kettle was already cold again; that would suggest that it was much longer than an hour since he stepped into his flat and set the kettle to boil. He flicked his eyes to the windows to note the barest touch of light starting to stretch out over the sky. All right, _much longer_ than an hour then. He had not planned to enter into his mind palace. Apparently, this problem was occupying his brain far more than he had thought that it would.

 

Sherlock observed his friend quickly before flicking his eyes back to the table. “Next time sleep on the sofa. The back of that chair is too high and forces your neck forward.” Without looking at him, Sherlock continued, “you’re out early.”

 

John rubbed his neck and let out a little laugh. “Hadn’t planned to sleep in the chair, but that’s parenthood. Mary said you’d need some help. I grabbed some real sleep in an actual bed before heading this way.” John grabbed the chair at the desk and set it down on the other side of the coffee table. Clearing his throat, the good doctor put his elbows on his knees to get a closer look at what Sherlock had been looking at for… _hours_ , apparently. “What’ve we got?”

 

“A series of notes left by an unknown for the client to find. She’s being stalked.”

 

“Eh, lovely,” distaste was heavy in John’s voice, “so where were they found?”

 

The very question he wanted to know.  For now…“Molly stated that they were found in locales ranging from work to home.”

 

“These belong to someone from her morgue?”

 

“No, they were left for Molly.”

 

“Molly?” John asked, surprised.

 

Sherlock held up the card. “This card, the most recent message was mixed in with some papers that Lestrade returned to her at Bart’s.” A detail that he had already asked Lestrade about and which he was waiting on a reply; interrogating criminals was a more difficult—and time consuming—undertaking for most. “As I have hinted at since the broadcast, I think it is now clear that Moriarty is back. He appears to have been waiting for the perfect moment to make his move.” He motioned to John, inviting him to take a look.

 

After John had read through the entire pile, finishing with the card, he blew out a breath. Sherlock looked up to find John starring at the card with unease. “Jesus. At her home too, you said?”

 

Sherlock nodded. Here he fought to maintain the façade of detachment, even as fear twisted under his skin. “It’s as I have feared; he _is_ targeting her.”

 

“This could just as…”

 

“Easily be a copycat,” Sherlock snapped, “Yes, it could, but it isn’t. This is Moriarty, even _you_ have to be able to see that.”

 

John laughed slightly, not a shred of humor in the sound. “Okay. What next?”

 

Frustrated and unsure, Sherlock growled and ruffled his hands through his hair before erupting to his feet. “ _Waiting._ One of Mycroft’s people will be _looking into it_ in the morning.”

 

“Well, good.” John sounded reassured. When the silence stretched on and Sherlock did not comment, he heard John shift behind him. “That _is_ good, right?”

 

“No. Mycroft appears to be operating under the idea that Moriarty is dead.” When things never developed after the broadcast, Mycroft quickly became disinterested with anything to do with James Moriarty. And even if Mycroft did believe that Moriarty had survived, he had said that he sees no reason why _‘your little pathologist’—_ John certainly didn’t need to know _that_ bit—would be of any significance. “In short, he doesn’t share the same concerns as I do.” He looked away from John, at the empty fireplace as he said what he had no desire to speak aloud, “he thinks I’m letting sentiment cloud my judgment.”

 

“Well…” John’s contradictory tone did nothing for Sherlock’s temper.

 

“No, John. You haven’t seen Molly. Something is different. Something is _wrong_.” Still John said nothing. “How often have I been wrong?”

 

“Really want to scratch at that?”

 

“ _John_.”

 

John let out a resigned sigh. “Mary did say that something was off.”

 

Sherlock picked up a book and began drumming his fingers in a furious rhythm along the surface of the cover. “That’s putting it lightly. She’s having horrific nightmares, vivid hallucinations. Anxiety, paranoia…”

 

“Those symptoms might signify drug exposure, specifically a hallucinogen,” John said, and Sherlock looked at his friend who had slipped swiftly into the role of medical professional. “Do you think she’s being drugged?”

 

“It’s the only thing that makes sense, but how am I supposed to find out? She’d hardly give me a urine sample.” Or would she…

 

Bringing his hand up to his forehead, John shook his head, seemingly suppressing some emotion. “Please let me be there if you do happen to ask her for one.” Humor, apparently. “Until then, you’re not gonna lock her in a military facility and torture her with a recording too, are you?”

 

Oh, dear lord. “You are _never_ going to let that go, are you? You were perfectly fine.”

 

“You _prick_ , I was on the verge of…”

 

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Sherlock threw the book down onto the nearest surface. “You’re _fine_ now, what does it _matter_?”

 

John muttered something, the distinct intonation of expletives clear. What on earth did he have to be so upset about? He hadn’t _actually_ drugged him…he had only _thought_ that he had. That the Baskerville facility was hard-wired for it had been entirely unexpected. ****  
  


“Nevermind.” There was exasperated, utterly _seething_ resignation in John’s tone this time. “You never answered my question.”

 

“Did you ask one?” Sherlock asked airily.

 

“Christ! You’re not going to turn her into a lab rat, are you?”  


Oh, that. “Don’t be ridiculous. I’d never do that to her.”

 

They both fell silent at that. The distant sound of sirens wailed in the distance, faintly overriding the occasional honk and shout that drifted up from the street below.

 

John broke the silence. “Right. What was that about sentiment again?”

 

Looking away from John, Sherlock moved to the window. Observing the countless people coming and going. If he focused on that which was right before him, he wouldn’t have to think too long or too clearly on the truth of John’s insinuation. He had absolutely no time for emotions at present; he couldn’t keep Molly safe if his head was flooded with anything but case-related data. “It is a chemical defect. Nothing more.”

 

A knock sounded outside the door.

 

“Sherlock, here’s what you asked for.” Mrs. Hudson walked into the room and stopped short, likely noticing John. “Oh, John, it’s good to see you!” Mrs. Hudson crooned like a giddy mother. It had _only_ been a week since she had seen him.  “How’s the baby doing?”

 

_Oh, for God’s sake_. Did anyone talk about anything else anymore? Was it some requirement that he was unfamiliar with? The moment anyone had a baby, all conversation must shift to discussing said baby?

 

John cleared his throat. “Fine, just fine.”

 

“Yes, yes,” Sherlock snapped, yanking the book out of Mrs. Hudson’s hands, causing her to jump. “She’s fine. He’s fine. We’re all _fine_. The Watson’s are hardly the first couple to have ever had a baby. Now, if you don’t mind, I have a case to solve and you’re cluttering up my thinking space.”

 

“Just see if I bring you the mincepies I have cooling downstairs, young man.” Just at that moment his stomach decided to growl in interest at the mention of _pies_. But no, eating took up too much time, too much energy that was far better spent in other pursuits. Mrs. Hudson’s voice broke through his thoughts _again;_ though not entirely unwelcome this time. “You’re welcome for the book, by the way.”

 

Walking over to the lamp, he began yanking the pages open. “And you’re hardly the first person to ever carry a book up the stairs,” he muttered under his breath.

 

“Oh, he’s in a mood!” Mrs. Hudson commiserated to John.

 

As he devoured the words before him, Mrs. Hudson and John carried on from by the door. If only they would move about fifteen feet below where they were right now…

 

“What’s the book for?” John asked.

 

“I don’t know. He just asked me for my journal, well, part of my journal. A few dates. You know, I started keeping one as a way to keep track of goings on and the people I see buzzing about outside. After Mrs. Byrd was robbed six months ago, I thought it might be a good idea. I saw it on the telly.” here she paused before continuing on in the most obvious, put upon voice that even he could not ignore the barb behind the tone. “When you get to be my age, going up the stairs is as much of a…”

 

“Thank you, Mrs. Hudson!” Sherlock said, rolling his eyes, “your _arduous_ trek is much appreciated. Now go away.” He spoke only in hopes of silencing her. It was hardly likely. Everyone else appeared to be overly fascinated with the sound of their own voice. It had to have been that, for it could not have been the fatuous words that heedlessly poured from their mouths. What was the point of all that noise if nothing was to become of it?

 

“Now, was that so difficult? Though I wish you wouldn’t be so rude about it.” Wha—oh, she thought it a true apology. Well, that made this social interaction easier.

 

“What dates?” John asked the room at large.

 

“Two dates over the last few months.” Sherlock offered absent-mindedly. “Days that Molly came here.”

 

“You remember the dates of when Molly came to see you?” Suspicion was heavy in his voice.

 

“John, my mind is…”

 

“Oh, save it and read.”

 

That tone had been absolutely patronizing and it gave Sherlock pause. John and Mary appeared to both be operating…it didn’t matter. All that mattered right now was the case, the work…keeping Molly safe. Who had time for…potentially softer emotions when her life could be in danger? No, now was definitely the time for work and nothing more.

 

Reading the entries, Sherlock snapped the journal shut in frustration—what she had for dinner, whom she talked with on the phone—nothing that would help him. Not anything of the slightest import whatsoever. Everything was categorically, “Pointless!”

 

“Well excuse me, but some of us have to make do with what we’ve got.”

 

“Nothing of significance! You noted nothing abnormal.” He shoved the book back into Mrs. Hudson’s hands before throwing himself down on the sofa. “I have gone over every interaction with Molly in my mind, every potential moment that could have a hidden clue and I have come up with _nothing_.” Nothing. Apparently that would be the theme of today…yesterday…whatever _day_ it was.

 

“I’ll just leave you two.” Mrs. Hudson said quietly. Her weary steps faded into the background, followed shortly by the distant sound of the door of her flat opening and closing. Remorse niggled at him, making him feel distinctly _uncomfortable_ ; he should not have been so unkind to Mrs. Hudson.

 

“What did Molly say about all this?” John asked.

 

Sighing, Sherlock changed course in his mind and snatched up the subject change with reluctant vigor; he wanted to solve the case, but he definitely did not relish the idea of talking of Molly to…anyone, at the moment. “She attempted to brush it off. Said that she figured it was just someone at work having a go at her.”

 

“What if it is?” John said even as Sherlock glared at him. “Sorry, but nightmares and odd notes on paper don’t mean she has a stalker. The two things could be unrelated _. Even you_ have to admit that.”

 

“Even me? You said yourself that she sounded as if she was being drugged!”

 

“I said _might_ , _might_ be drugged. Most of those notes there aren’t enough for you to be getting on with! Unless there’s some odd stationary being used there? A particular type of…I don’t know… _ink_ from a very specific shop?”

 

“Nope.” He popped the ‘p’. “Everything is irritatingly mass-produced.” He motioned to the kitchen table that was covered with beakers, cylinders, etc., “And not a trace of anything that will lead us _anywhere.”_

 

“Ok…” John’s voice was unsure. Sherlock waited the usual 5-10 second pause that usually accompanied John’s reveal of whatever thoughts were churning in his sometimes-observant brain. “Why aren’t you at Molly’s? That’s the only way you’ll get the information you need to get to the next step…right?”

           

“She threw me out.”

 

“What?”

 

Sigh. “She threw me out for the second time today—no need to play dumb, Mary already told you. Molly had a hallucination involving a cadaver that sent her running out of Bart’s. I went to her flat where she soon kicked me out again. I have every intention of turning her flat upside down as soon as she leaves for her shift in…” He glanced at the clock on the mantle. “An hour. Until then I have Wiggins keeping an eye on the place for me. I’ve also informed Lestrade to pull any surveillance footage surrounding Molly’s flat and her commute to and from Bart’s.”

 

“Is Greg doing that?”

 

“Potentially. ” Sherlock sunk his hands into his hair before sliding them down and over his face, to steeple below his chin. “He felt the need to inform me that it wasn’t his area.” Counting on the detective inspectors warm regard of Molly to persuade him into action, Sherlock felt fairly confident that the reminder had merely been to state the difficulty in obtaining such pertinent information. It would seem that Graham would need a pat on that back after this task was completed.

 

The room fell silent once more. John moved to look out the windows. “If he _is_ back, if it really is Moriarty sending her all that,” he motioned to the table and papers, “what’s the point? Why do it?”

 

He had asked himself this very question countless times. Revenge most certainly appeared to be within the confines of Moriarty’s character. But why now? Why practically three years later? Could the consulting criminal simply be operating in the basal emotional level that spawns revenge? It was anyone’s guess where he had been the past three years. “Moriarty’s being patient, biding his time. Molly is only a target due to her having helped me defeat him. She helped me cheat at the game he set last time. Of course, he didn’t exactly play by the rules either. I still have no idea how he could have survived the rooftop. _No one_ could have survived that, even if there had been blanks in the gun. I’m missing something. A vital clue. He’s not just targeting her, he’s toying with her. Something is different this time.”

 

“Oh, Sherlock! You’ve got a package!” Mrs. Hudson’s voice called from below.

 

He didn’t have time for this. He had a mystery to solve. Someone had targeted Molly. Determinedly not reacting to the declaration that sought to lure him from his task, Sherlock steepled his fingers and closed his eyes to think.

 

“I’ll just go and get that, yeah?” John was irritated as he left the flat and trudged down the stairs.

 

Only fair, Sherlock had been irritated for hours.

 

“Here you are.” He could hear Mrs. Hudson speaking to John from the ground floor. “It really is good to see you, John. Stop by before you leave. You can take some goodies home to Mary. But why don’t you see if you can’t perk him up before you do?” That was followed by the sound of a door closing and—presumably—John ascending the stairs.

 

John’s footfalls sounded as he moved toward him. Silence stretched except for the faint sounds of what sounded like John offering him the package. Sherlock didn’t take it; why would he? He hadn’t ordered anything.

 

Huffing loudly, John carried the package to the table. “If I wanted to do everything for someone else, I would have just stayed home with Evey. Scratch that, she’s _less_ demanding than you are.”

 

“I don’t recall asking you to come over.”

 

“You did, actually, yesterday. That’s why Mary came over. And for what exactly?” The tone of his voice was so smug, so incredibly knowing that it raked over Sherlock’s nerves. “So she could be your bloody security blanket.”

 

The sound of John roughly opening the package almost made Sherlock jump. _Almost_.

 

Sherlock slapped his hands on the couch and sat up. “Oh, _enough_. You and Mary are entirely convinced that I have _feelings_ for Molly…”

 

“Sherlock.”

 

“This childish prodding has grown tiresome. How many times must I…”

 

“ _Sherlock_.”

 

“Explain this to you both. I am excessively concerned with her current predicament, but that does _not_ mean—“

 

“ ** _Sherlock_**!”

 

The panicked tone finally broke through Sherlock’s tirade. Turning, he looked over to find John, pale faced and eyes wide as he stared into the contents of the box that he had brought up. “John? What is it, what’s wrong?”

 

John swallowed heavy as his eyes finally tore from whatever he had been looking at to Sherlock. “I think you’re right.”

 

Sherlock threw himself off the couch to stand next to John as he followed the doctor’s gaze. Nestled in the bottom of the box was an envelope. His stomach dropped when his eyes fell on the devastatingly familiar red, wax seal and the single magpie that adorned it. He tried his best to ignore the shake in his hands as he reached into the box. He quickly broke the seal and peered inside.

 

When he saw what sat inside the envelope, every piece suddenly started to fall into place.

 

Just as he was about to reach inside to pick up the object in question, his phone began to ring. Looking down at where it sat on the table in front of him, Sherlock felt as if he could hardly breathe.

 

_Molly_.

 

Scooping up the phone, he answered it and brought it to his ear in a single movement. “Are you all right? What’s wrong?”

 

Her panicked, practically incoherent speech set every single nerve in his body on edge. He could barely understand her, but something was wrong. Someone had been in her flat while she slept and she was terrified.

 

_Someone had been in her flat while she slept._

 

Without a word to John, he rushed out of his flat, shoving the envelope into the pocket of his coat. “Molly, listen to me. Do you have someone close by that can wait with you?” He hailed a cab. “Good, yes—don’t be alone right now, do you understand? I’m coming for you as quickly as I possibly can.” He gave the address to the cabbie. Fear like he had never felt before began to blaze beneath his skin. He had been right; Moriarty was back.

 

The game was on.

 


	5. Chapter 5

Disclaimer: I own nothing.

A/N: Hello, everyone! It’s been a really, _really_ long time since I’ve updated this story. My personal life is a bit chaotic and crazy, so I don’t get a chance to write anywhere near as much as I would like. But for those of you still interested in this story (and thank you SO MUCH!), just know that I plan on finishing this. I am going to keep myself on this one so that I can finish it relatively soon…hopefully. I’m making absolutely no promises, but just know that I haven’t abandoned the story.

I wrote another story back in April called Anagenesis—my first foray into writing sexy times. It was unnerving, but hopefully I did a decent job of that. And for anyone interested, I am on tumblr. I’m Xaraphis on there as well!

All right. Here we go again…

 

* * *

 

_Running. She was running. The burning cold cut through her clothes as efficiently as a knife as each desperate footfall pounded on the ground. Every footfall—every bit of contact of her bare and bloodied feet against rough stone—collided with the ground and sent horrific, burning pain shooting up her legs. She couldn’t stop. Couldn’t look back. If she looked back, it would find her._

_She could hear it in the distance. Screaming…singing…laughing…_

_Molly sucked in a burning breath and coughed, the cold freezing her lungs. Lightning flooded the darkness at the same moment a great, thunderous clap erupted into the night so loudly that she could feel it in her chest, in her head. Her vision began to blur as tears of pain—of desperation and fear—filled her eyes._

_Her foot caught and she tumbled forward, her frigid flesh tearing on the jagged bricks that lined the darkened ground beneath her. Shivering with pain, her fingers clawed against the broken bits of baked clay for purchase. Molly whimpered as she struggled to regain her feet._

_Fear shot up her spine as her mind registered the silence, thick and oppressive, as it settled around her ears. Freezing where she was—half-laying on the hard, cold ground—Molly waited._

_The moments passed in continued silence, her arms shaking as she attempted to support her weight, but she didn’t dare move. Just when she had started to believe that it might be safe, that he might be gone, a soft, melodious voice began to sing behind her._

_“Beautiful…”_

_That comforting song that had been twisted, and mangled…instilling fear now where it had always made her feel safe. A hand grabbed her hair, her head ripping back with a terrified scream. Another hand wrapped around her throat as the voice shifted, going dark as it growled in her ear._

_“…dreamer...”_

_Fingers pressed into her neck, bruising and crushing…_

Molly awoke all at once, wrenching awake with gasping, strangled breaths. She attempted to shake off the shadow of the nightmare, her feet snuggled beneath her duvet burning with the phantom of remembered pain. Every bit of her shaking, her eyes bore into the darkness around her.

It was getting worse.

She could practically _feel_ the nightmares now. Her lungs were on fire as if she had been running in the cold and her skin still burned from frostbitten chill. Shaking her head, willing away the panic she could feel rising up in her, Molly smacked her hands down on either side of her, her fists colliding with the plush softness of her duvet. A small shifting sound—paper?—accompanied the movement, and she was suddenly aware of a faint weight of _something_ lying across her feet. She wiggled her toes, her stomach sinking as that same _something_ across her feet shifted and slid off onto the bed. Whatever it was, was concealed by shadow, just beyond where the slip of moonlight spilled from her window…

Molly froze.

The lights were off. She had fallen asleep with the lights _on_ ; she _knew_ she had fallen asleep with the lights on. Darkness, impenetrable and unsettling, hung around her. Not only were the lights of her bedroom off, but so were the various lights she had left lit in every other room.

Panic, swift and sickening, shot through her; breathe hitching even as she fought for control. _Calm down. Calm down. Maybe the power’s just out. It IS storming…_

Except that it wasn’t. The night was silent. The storm had been in her dream.

She grit her teeth, grinding them together slightly as she forced her panicked breaths to calm. Her hand reached out, fingers closing around the knob of the lamp. When it clicked once, twice, three times…Molly’s jaw clenched a little tighter as the darkness started to press in on her.

**_Calm down._ ** _The bulb could’ve burned out…_

Molly pulled a steadying breath in through her nose before blowing it out in a shuddering rush. Stealing herself, her fingers travelled up the curving metal of the lamp, skimming the surface hesitantly. When her fingers slid up the smooth plastic that usually housed the bulb—or at least, where the light bulb _had_ been before she slept—she froze.

Her teeth began to chatter, all hope of her remaining calm sufficiently abandoned. Unmoving, her eyes raked through the darkness, desperately hoping that it was _empty_. A razor sharp tingle shot up her spine, screaming for her to flee, _to run_. Without letting herself think, she flung herself from the bed. The sound of that same shifting, furthered by the sound of unknown _things_ falling to the floor in a trickling wave, accompanied the action. Molly fell against her wall, her hand desperately fumbling to find the switch.

A moment later, precious light flooded the room.

Before she could rejoice in that small victory, she forced her eyes to her bed…freezing all over again. Her bed—that she had just been sleeping in, that she had just gotten up from—was covered in photos. Dozens and dozens of photos. Numb, her feet carried her forward; reaching out with a shaking hand, she grasped one of the photos and brought it up to her face.

It was a picture. Of her. _In her flat._

Her eyes wide, she dropped the offending scrap and dove for another. Over and over she repeated the action, each picture she found _of her._ All of them, every _single_ photo, was _of_ _her_ …watching the telly, reading, getting dressed…every single image, each one of them from within the confines of her flat.

Her movements became frantic, tears running down her face as she shoved away from the bed. Running her hands through her hair, they fisted tight as she fought to come to terms with the horrible reality staring up at her, in the form of photographs—so many photographs. Someone had been watching her for weeks, maybe even months. They had placed cameras in her flat. They had been watching her. Her every move. They had been in her room while she slept.

_They had placed those pictures on her bed_ _while she slept_.

A sound from the living room caught her ear. A muffled thump followed by the skid of metal across her kitchen floor. Slowly, she forced her head up, turning to face her bedroom door and the suffocating blackness in the room beyond. With a wrenching sob—of fear, frustration, and complete determination—she threw herself into the darkness. Running for the light switch at the far side of the room, Molly knocked over a chair in her haste, nearly tripping over it.

She turned to find Toby in the kitchen, vigorously devouring fresh food from his metal bowl as it slid across the floor.

Momentary relief shot through her and she bit back hard on the tears that so desperately wanted to fall. _Bloody cat._ She turned away from the kitchen, finding, to her horror, even more photographs littering the walls and covering almost every surface of her flat, disrupting the beauty of her quiet life; the bombardment of images making her stomach sick with unease.

Terrifying her. Taunting her.

Why would someone be doing this to her? What if they came back?

_She needed help…_

At the fringe of her vision, something caught her eye. Unlike every other surface, the sofa table was bare…but something was sat upon it that did not belong.

It was the unmistakable shape of the music box her father had given her—completely out of place and perfectly centered on the sofa table. She glanced up at its habitual spot on her bookshelf, her stomaching dropping, for in its place, was a picture, yet again, of Molly…after she had fallen asleep on the sofa. Eyes returning to the treasured keepsake—the last gift her father had ever given her—Molly noted with quiet horror that there was a folded up bit of paper propped up against the base. Fingers shaking, she picked up the scrap of paper, unfolding it…

_Open me_ , it read; flourished with a smiley face.

Squeezing her eyes shut, tears finally loosing down her cheeks, Molly crushed the bit of paper in her hand even as her other lifted, reaching out to the music box. She didn’t want to open it…she knew what she would find…she just _knew…_

Her pulse pounded, as suddenly, _dancing_ in the darkness, making a mockery of the light, was the shadow that had been haunting her. _Hunting her._ She could _feel_ the light being drawn out of the room, away from her. Then she could see it, the hooded figure in the corner. It raised its hand, reaching out to her…

With a scream, she threw herself toward the counter where she had left her mobile only hours before. She knocked over a table and the lamp that sat atop it in her haste to scoop up the lifeline.

She dialed before she even knew whom she was calling. The only person she knew that could help her; that she always wanted more than any other; and that she knew could save her.

* * *

 

Fred, her landlord, placed a steaming cup of tea down on the table before her. She was sat on the sofa of his cozy flat, an afghan wrapped around her shoulders, mobile in hand. Cradling her phone, Molly watched the tiny dot denoting Sherlock’s destination creep closer and closer to her location. The dot stopped, no doubt the signal freezing. Anticipation itched at her, causing her to fidget as she waited for that _bloody dot_ to move. _Now is, of course, when the damn signal drops._

After several moments of stillness and silence, Sherlock’s dot shot to the corner of her street and Molly launched herself up off the sofa.

Tearing out of Fred’s flat, down the stairs, she met the taxi just as it pulled up to the curb **.**

Sherlock erupted out of the taxi, rushing right to her. He grabbed tight to Molly's arms, bending down as his eyes darted back and forth between hers, then searching her face and the rest of her body. What he gathered from _that_ she hardly knew, but whatever it was must have been enough. He rocked back on his heels, face steeling into a stoic mask.

A second taxi pulled up and John stepped out; a worried yet equally annoyed look on his face.

Sherlock didn’t turn to look at him, but he let go of her arms and turned toward her building.

“Did you bring it, John?”

“What? Oh,” John patted his jacket. “Well, yeah, I always—“

“Stay with Molly.” Sherlock called over his shoulder.

“And what are you gonna do if…” Sherlock was gone, disappearing into her building without a backward glance. “Nevermind,” John sniffed, turning back toward her, “Okay.”

Sunlight was just barely starting to fill the sky as the silence stretched. Awkward silence. She offered John a shaky smile as she caught his eyes briefly before dropping her own to look at his shirt, the ground…anything, really. He was still studying her; she could see it out of the corner of her eye.

Fear still simmering just beneath the surface, Molly’s fists balled up at her sides as she fought a wave of irritation; John watching her like a pot was hardly helping. In fact, it’d be wonderful if he’d just _stop it_.

“Any dizziness, nausea…hallucinations?”

Molly swallowed. She was definitely not answering any of that. “ _What_ did you bring?” She asked, attempting to deflect.

He paused, still studying her; she could see that out of the corner of her eye. After several more moments, he cleared his throat, turning away from her and shifting his gaze to the building in front of them. “Reinforcements.”

The sound of a window being yanked open above them broke the silence. “Clear!” Sherlock’s low voice boomed out into the night, making her jump. John motioned for her to precede him and she stared at his outstretched hand a little longer than was probably called for. Swallowing swiftly, she forced her feet into motion—each step a little more difficult to take as they drew closer and closer to her flat.

They made it to the door of her flat and a wave of panic stole through her, just as strong as before…when she had awoken to see…

She took a step back, away from the door and everything inside of it.

“Molly, are you ok?” Concern shadowed John’s voice, and he laid a hand on her shoulder when she didn’t respond.

She couldn’t move, couldn’t even tear her eyes away from the closed door in front of her; mind going completely and perfectly numb.

Heavy footfalls moved toward her from the confines of her flat. The door ripped open, “ _What_ is _taking_ so long?” The spot on the door that her eyes had been boring into suddenly shifted to part of Sherlock’s chest, but she couldn’t seem to shake herself out of the trance-like feel of that blurred vision. “Molly,” Sherlock’s voice, softer now when he spoke. “Molly, it’s all right.” So gentle and compelling; within the somber tones of his voice, she finally found the strength to lift her eyes from his chest, seeking and finding his. The gentleness shining down on her amidst his furious intensity melted into her; chasing away a bit of the fear, even as she watched his eyes begin to darken with unease. “There’s no one here…anymore.”

Her eyes still fixed on his, Molly felt John brush past her so that he could move into her flat.

“ _Jesus!”_ That single exclamation erupted out of John as a hissing sigh.

Molly’s stomach sank. That would be the photographs.

“Shouldn’t we call the police?” Her voice shook and she dropped her head; her eyes squeezing shut as she brought her hands up to cover her face.

“This is beyond them.” Sherlock’s voice…still so quiet…so careful.

“Mycroft, then?” John asked, joining them back at the door.

Silence met that. There was probably a look exchanged between the two of them, but she just couldn’t. She felt like she just couldn’t do anything anymore.

John walked back inside, leaving Molly and Sherlock at the door of her flat.

Balling her hands into fists, she let her arms fall to her sides. With a wretched sigh, she lifted her gaze back up to his, motioning inside with a tilt of her head. “Is it safe now _?”_ She winced. She couldn’t quite erase the shake from her voice entirely.

He paused, studying her face for several moments; his gaze soft, yet penetrating. “This move he’s made, he wants you to leave. He expects it. Staying briefly will be unanticipated, therefore the most logical course of action.” Sherlock’s voice was firm, but still so gentle.

She could feel the frown on her face deepen even as she nodded; being in her flat just felt like a very bad idea right now. But he looked so sure…

Molly took the last few steps into her flat and Sherlock closed the door behind her. Her eyes fell to the floor, examining the fuzzy slippers on her feet in a desperate attempt to avoid the reality of her flat yet again. “I’m sorry. I should’ve…I should’ve gone to you from the off. Just the same…thank you for… _this_. You didn’t have to come. I’ve been a bit not fair…and I…I’m sorry.” Still she did not look at him—fear and shame twisting inside of her.

“Look at me.”

His voice, still so gentle, pulled at her, causing her eyes to drag up from their perusal of her feet to his face. He still wore that same tender look, yet now peppered with fear, determination, and a longing so intense that she couldn’t look anywhere else. His eyes held hers captive as he lifted his hand carefully to her face, his fingertips brushing gently against the soft skin of her cheek. “I _will_ solve this,” He promised. “This I vow to you. I will not rest until you are safe. I will _always_ keep you safe, Molly Hooper. Never doubt that.”

She didn’t quite know what to make of this. She didn’t know what to make of any of it.

Molly didn’t respond, she simply kept staring up at him; terrified and marveling at the tender way he was caressing her cheek. Connected with him through the wonder of his glorious, almost unearthly gaze, her own fear abated with every moment her eyes remained locked with his. Molly nodded, a certainty, swift and strong, filling her up; she brought her hand up to grasp his where it rested gently against her cheek. Closing her own much smaller hand around as much of his as possible, holding him to her as she pressed into his touch; not just trusting his words—both said and unsaid—but _knowing them,_ feeling the truth of them down to the very marrow of her bones. Her own truth shined through, breaking through the fog of uncertainty and denial that she had clung to for far too long now. “I never have. I believe in you.”

His eyes _burned_ at that. His mouth snapping shut as his eyes bore into hers for one last, electrifying moment. Then he spun away from her, immediately bursting into action as he rushed around her flat like a whirlwind; analyzing pictures, moving objects, furniture, _everything_ as he searched. He erupted to his feet with a curse under his breath, ripping off his coat when it proved a hindrance. He threw it onto the sofa carelessly, spinning back around to look at…whatever it was he had been looking at…

Molly plopped down beside it, hugging a throw pillow to herself as she watched John and Sherlock practically tear her flat apart in their search. Sherlock pulled back suddenly, a small device in his hand.

“Is that a camera?” John asked.

“Yes, it is. One of several dozen, judging by the photographs. Hold on.” He picked up a few photographs, his eyes darting back and forth between them before dropping them to the floor. He turned on his heel and headed into the bedroom with John following behind him. Chaos of movement burst from the room beyond.

“Sherlock, what _are_ we looking for?” John’s voice sounded from her bedroom, but he could barely be heard over the sound of objects being moved all over her bedroom. “Sherlock!”

Sherlock said something in response, but she stopped paying attention. She couldn’t take anymore of this. To be frank, she did not care in the slightest about what they would find. She wanted to get out, get away from this wretched flat until this particular storm had blown over.

Shuddering from her thoughts, Molly tightened her grip on the pillow in her lap. She was so tired of being afraid. So very tired of fearing _everything._ With a wretched huff, she threw herself to the side. Her head landing on the Belstaff Sherlock had discarded on her sofa only moments before. The exquisite garment smelled so much of him that it made her _ache._ No longer caring about a single reservation she had harbored regarding Sherlock just hours before, Molly shifted her face into the soft wool. The smell of _him_ , heady and sweet, filled her up; soothing her in ways that she had been fighting against for so long. She shifted again, moving more fully onto the garment and resting her cheek fully against it, pulling back when she felt something hard, accompanied by the crinkling of stiff paper.

Nose wrinkling in confusion, Molly pulled back to examine the coat. Glancing at the bedroom, hearing that both Sherlock and John were still deeply engrossed in their search, she reached her hand inside his coat. When she pulled out a manila envelope her stomach clenched. Turning the envelope over carefully, her eyes fell on the elegant red wax seal and remembrance, faint but unmistakable, stirred. She had seen something like this before…but where?

With one final glance at the open door of her bedroom, Molly opened the envelope and peeked inside, frowning at what she found. Reaching inside, she pulled out the contents of the envelope; brow furrowing in confusion, she examined the smooth, curving wood in her hands. She’d seen something like this before, too…it had been a really long time since she had, but it was unmistakable…

Why on earth was Sherlock carrying around an old sewing spindle?

Turning the object over slowly in her hands, Molly blew out a breath. The sound of her bed being yanked out from the wall made her jump, but she stayed put, not really wanting to know _why_ they were moving her bed or what they would find.

Molly’s eyes fell to the sofa table in front of her, and she froze; eyes locking on the music box, on the soft pinks and yellows that swirled across it. There it still sat upon the table, surprisingly untouched from Sherlock’s chaotic search of the room.

At that moment, a single, tinkling note chimed—the mechanism no doubt slipping from within. There it stayed; playing with her, twisting her mind with fear; having far more power over her than she would have ever dreamed possible.

That was it. It was quite enough.

She was done being manipulated. She would not let this treasured childhood keepsake be used against her. She was Molly Hooper, Specialist Registrar, and she was _done_ being some mad man’s game piece.

With trembling hands, she reached out and scooped up the box. Forcing her fingers into motion, _willing_ herself into action, Molly’s fingers slipped to open the cheerful music box. She met unexpected resistance but, even as her mind screamed at her to stop, her fingers were already in motion. The sound of something snapping followed; a burst of air erupted from the music box as the once-loved tune of Beautiful Dreamer began to fill the stillness of the room. A picture, with a word scribbled across the top, was stuffed inside the box, but her suddenly blurry vision couldn’t focus on it.

The sweet melody danced through the air as panic, swift and sure, coiled tight up her spine. With a scream she threw herself backwards, shaking her head as she clapped her hands over her ears. Something was different, something was wrong. She couldn’t get her eyes to focus; her vision was beginning to go dark.

In the next moment, Sherlock was in front of her.

“What happened?” He asked, his arms grabbing hold of her shoulders. She fought for air but she couldn’t answer him, her throat closing up as tears blurred her darkening vision even more. His voice was cold, _hard_ , as he pressed on. “What is the significance of that song? Molly?”

She reached for him, grabbing tight to his shirt as she fought for breath. She wanted to ask him to make it stop, but she couldn’t. The darkening of her eyes shifted, the shadow taking over, and Molly tried to scream. Her eyes snapped shut, willing herself not to see it—knowing that if she opened her eyes, _it_ would be there in the shadows.

His arms shifted, holding tight around her, her hands once more clapping over her ears as she melted to the floor; eyes squeezed shut as she fought against _everything_ to hold herself together, even as her mind grew fuzzy, sluggish.

“Molly? What’s…” there was a hitch, his own voice growing heavy, slowing, as his grip on her began to weaken, “wrong?”

She opened her eyes, seeking out his face, but it was shadowed and slowly slid completely out of focus. The shadow in her mind was growing again. Closer. Stronger. She _knew_ that she wouldn’t be able to fight it off this time.

Sherlock’s panicked, but slurring, voice cut through the haze just as her eyes slipped closed. “Molly…”

Then darkness. Silence.

A death-like sleep.


End file.
